Hat Trick: (So) Familiar to Zero
by Vacuous Density
Summary: Louise calls forth a stunning and beautiful familiar. What will become of this world of mages and spellcraft given this unprecedented force? Can this player rise to the challenge of Halkegenia? Is the hidebound nobility ready for this dynamic summon? And will Louise ever be able to wear this hat? One thing is certain: the Hatbinger comes, and, with it, a new age of great gentility.
1. 0

CHAPTER 1: HIGHLY RESPONSIVE TO PRAYERS, or A FAMILIAR FEELING OF FAILURE

She had summoned a familiar. She had done it: at long last, she had proven she was capable of true magic, which, curiously enough, is the non-explosive kind. No, not really. That had happened not, save maybe in her delusions of grandeur wherein she lived up to her le Blanc heritage. For her familiar, for all her bluster on that day to Kirche & Co, came to be… a hat.

凸

It began on that placid (by itself) field that had borne witness to so much, too much, really, over the years. To much jeering (a given), cheering (in a daring sort of way, or perhaps they were confused? Or, most disturbingly, the cheerers were given to certain... fixations... of the... "pleasurable sort" from being the roots and recipients of rage), and peering (through the inevitable smoke) mixed together, Louise had cast her familiar spell. At the center of it all, its visage poking through the grayness, her familiar appeared. Her familiar. Yes. A hat. No matter the smoke, it was not something worthy of cries of anguish, worthy of a conqueror, like a great beast astride a bloody battlefield. (Louise had rather strange ideas about her le Blanc heritage at times; such it is to have the Heavy Wind as a mother.)

No, instead of anguish at Louise's success, others had then resumed the three -eerings (with some definitely confused now, perhaps at each other this time), along with some glaring to calm down this time from Colbert to the students. Cries of "there isn't anything, really!" and "as expected of the Zero Louise!" and "what a magic TRICK, Zero!" were commonplace (save for the last cry, which was only somewhat common- it was diluted in count as it came in different forms, mostly lacking the "magic" part, as that is fairly common as well and not notable in and out of itself; when it was said, it was mostly as a preemptive riposte directed toward one stated Zero), and perhaps even more intense than the daily reminders thrown at Louise of her null status. Colbert silenced them with a sequel glare (the second glare, glare two, of a hard day's glaring: glare harder), but he had this hesitating, lost look about his face Louise saw below his usual facade (insofar as Louise knows, for the facade that he purportedly exposes around the hardworking Louise at her studies is merely a facade for that man's other facade hiding his Flame Snake self heritage; truly, Colbert possesses hidden depths, and is on, so many levels, full of irony, even unnoticed. A master of irony, he is).

He looked to her in utter disappointment- that was it; that was the look. So many hours of her had spent after class studying, asking questions, learning more- being a theoretically good student… so now, that disappointment of Colbert's bit into her. Louise could only hope it was disappointment in her failure, not her personally, but honestly… what was the difference? Especially at this point.

She had wanted to try again, but could not bring herself to ask. All that was left was to plod off in failure, as befitted her "runic name" (FOR PURPOSES OF CLARIFICATION FOR THOSE HARD OF HEARING, WHEREIN HEARING IS SYNONYMOUS WITH cognitive ability, this so called "runic name," quote unquote noted, is what some would term a banterous sobriquet in use during teen-aged bonding and most, as in the others, would term as an insulting moniker; let this be known, for it is most imperative that one should not be mistaken towards believing Louise is of such recognized magical talent that she would receive an actual runic name): Louise the Zero. (Though really, only the ever-knowledgeable Who would know if, somehow, Louise in possession of an actual runic name would have an identical one or not.)

But wait, there is more!... to this. An inanimate object as a familiar is, well, was the definitive edition of unprecedented. Even a human-like failure, er, familiar, had more precedent, given Brimir's Sasha. Maybe some good could come of this?

No. The contrived excuses and wrangling redemptions had to stop. It was time to stand on her own two feet. Failure or not, it was hers! Hers! Filled with resolve, Louise had then… dropped off her own two feet to kiss a hat. It had been confusing and infuriating figuring out where to kiss the Founder-damned thing, and the cheering of some lewd sort (imagine leering, only enunciated) at her doing (of) such things only made it worse, and the whole matter stranger. (For a small sample from those discerning: "What are you...", "Oh Brimir!", "She's the Zero, this summon is so fitting!", and "Ahahahahaha! The summon fits the summoner for real after all!" were a few of the cheers that followed, hounding at Louise's mind).

At the time, Louise had only had this one resigned thought: "At least it can't get worse."

Though in her second year by now and quite a studious student given to much redundant and scholarly studying by all accounts, it seems Louise still had much to learn.

凸

"So I had wished for a sacred, beautiful, and powerful familiar. Oh Brimir above, great Brimir up high, Founder between the heavenly clouds in the sky, unmatched Brimir-Founder- thank you so much for this grand gift," Louise said, plopping down into her bed and tossing her hat onto her much-abused nightstand. (It was more of a table, to be honest, and it even had chairs set up for two, but let us bear witness to further honesty here: when is Louise the Zero going to have to use those two chairs? Zero should need not even one. AJAJAJJAJAJJA ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO- Founder, those cries haunted her even now, in the sanctuary of her own room. Were there no safe spaces?)

Louise sighed and stretched out upon her bed. She wondered what was to become of her now. Was she to be expelled? Further schooling here did seem unlikely, given the lack of a real familiar. No matter the summoning or the scrawling on it that made up some likely runes, it seemed more like she had done some transmute spell terribly wrong, replacing a patch of grass with a hat. A hat... ergh. Urgh. Aggggh. Ooooh-... a mistake.

Her family, no matter the influence, would not be able to keep her in either, no? Rules may be bent, but not exactly broken if one is working (within) the system. Le Blanc de la Valliere or not, how was some headgear, no matter how fine, to be passed off as a familiar? Even an idiot commoner would have worked better.

Pulling herself up to stare at her hat, Louise found herself growing angrier and angrier. Why her? Truly, why her? What had she ever done to deserve this, other than sometimes being a conceited jerk, which really is not that bad, and is not it simply all others overreacting, or their fault for trying her? And really, was not her family powerful, noble, and even magnanimous to the peasants? Was she not always full of a drive to succeed, was not she always trying her best? Was it not enough that she was already short and otherwise ill-endowed?! Why bring this all upon her; was it some cruel joke from above?!

"Why!? Why me?!" Louise shouted as she went mad, nay, absolutely insane with rage. This was not her everyday rage at being called Zero, no. This was a newer form of rage, an innovation in the field of rage studies that would be sure to impact- nay, to disrupt- the whole rage industry. It was... the type of rage that burns up in a few moments and then evolves on its own into a cold, calculating rage wherein whatever object(s) causing the rage face(s) a fittingly cold and calculated revenge plotted to the point of being overly complicated such that the aforementioned object(s) might be confronted and informed of their status of being object(s) of rage before a general revenge is taken in a painful, violent, and final manner. The only issue was- well, there was no particular object for Louise's rage. There was no one, as in, no one object for her to blame, for the most part, so her earlier resolution to not take excuses and whatnot for herself all conspired together to form a committee for the inducing of some ridiculous urge to inflict pain upon herself in a ritual of flagellation similar to religious ways, only with less refinement, took control, no, absolutely seized control of Louise. She stomped her feet on the floor, shooting stray hay into the air.

That hay- that hay that would have been for the familiar. What a waste now.

Louise's anger progressed until it reached the point where she was smashing her head against her wardrobe (less refinement… yes, well, correct that to significantly less now, unless a certain culture has an art form revolving around or otherwise linked to this "headbanging").

Now typically, when these matters (these matters being rather intense flagellations or just-as-terrifyingly-and-or-amusingly-inimical equivalents) transpire, there is somewhat of an exposition in the "here" to "there" point, with plentiful reflection and spiritual whatever-you-will, but, with more frankness forthcoming, it must be said that Louise simply smashed her head against the wardrobe because she did. Because, that is why. Because. It is indeed not actually so surprising when the facts are taken into account, given her relentless(ly entertaining) rage over the smallest matters. Perhaps that is the reason the Zero is teased so despite her ability to cause explosive-natured pain to any irritants, but this is a digression, neither here nor there. What is important is that Louise's smashing of her head against her wardrobe roused the hat from its slumber of… ah, being a hat.

"Oi, what's that noise? Keep it down; can't you see I'm trying to sle… be a hat here?"

Louise stopped her headbanging for a moment. "What? Am I hearing things?"

"Must be going a little too hard," she mumbled and shrugged before reaching her head back for another hit of the "good stuff" (i.e., head smashing).

"No, you're not hearing anything except this right here," the hat said while jamming a sausage-like-cloth-like hat-finger toward itself. "I'm a hat, and I talk. Is that really so surprising? Jeez Louise, it's the current year. Need you be apprised of that, that it is the CURRENT YEAR? Whatever that may be in this weird mumbo jumbo fetishist juju totem-constructing tribal backwards land I'm now in, it is very much so the current year... and people are still against sentient hatkind. I cannot believe this. With all due severity, I've feelings, just like you, and I should note that I can feel the sound of your head smashing. It's loud and it's all vibrating everything here, there, and everywhere about. Now keep it down, pinkhead mage thing. I'm a real man's man, a true gentleman's hat of a hat here, and I need to rest up to regain my strength and fashion-ability."

Louise stared for the shortest amount of time that might be so considered staring.

Louise then resumed her headbanging apace.

"Why?! Did?! This?! Happen?! To?! Me?!" she said between smashes. Sporadically, she would also stop to pant and resume smashing following a combined shrugging-twitching motion which would see her head hit by one of her two shoulders, or, in some truly inspiring cases, both at once.

Eventually, the pinkhead mage thing tired herself out, or rather, exceeded her admittedly-impressive pain tolerance and fell to the floor, her head smashing some more, but this time against the finest quality cherrywood crafted by the best woodsmiths (no, not some low class carpenters: woodsmiths, they are; and in fact, so fine were their workings that no woodsmiths may be found in Tristain any longer. Their ability to work wood was so great such that an equally great purge quietly took place, with the nobility suspicious of the woodworking of the ostensibly working class smiths being so grand and not wishing to possibly admit more to their ranks) in Tristain who were specifically commissioned at no small cost to put together this exquisite, litotes-worthy (especially considering the expense) finish to an already-luxurious room- and such their quality did show still, despite all the time since the building of the building that was the Tristain Academy of Magic, this was still literally a figuratively top-tier floor (the Academy is quite tall, actually, and it has, literally, in sense two, thousands of floors, most of which are above the lowly rosy gnat Louise's quarters); why, the wood was even better than the wood on the wardrobe, though maybe that was due to the recent physical trauma inflicted upon it by a particular pinkie's frenzied cranial assault upon the furniture-slash-closet misnomer-in-purpose-(at-the-very-least)-if-not-etymologically, and not simply just solely the wood having a great, possibly-magical, possibly-mundanely-well-designed resistance to decay and general attrition over the years.

The hat hopped on over to Louise and leaned over her.

"I didn't mean 'keep it down' in such a literal way," the hat's looming voice called. Louise only groaned a response in response.

"You… are you OK?"

"No," Louise responded.

"Very well. I was only checking. Only being responsible here. I'm no doctor, but I'm not too surprised by your answer."

凸

When Louise had finally managed to awaken an hour or so later (quite hardy, she is; maybe all the explosions during magical training really did train something?), she yawned and indulged in the time-tested tradition of hoping, "Hey, maybe that was all a dream?" for a half-second before turning over in her bed and then popping her eyes open and screaming upon receiving new information that invalidated the mistaken belief it was all a dream, really, and that indeed, no, it was not a dream, not at all, but something somehow far worse than losing control of one's body and having a fantasy world unfold before your very eyes within your very, one and only, unconscious.

"So you awaken once more... at long last," the hat before her eyes said. "I must say, it was most difficult bringing you onto your bed."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No; I only implied that. Or should I say, 'That was the implication, but now...' No. Stop. Cease this. This is progressing to be far too complex. Let me just clear up any misunderstandings now, before they spiral out of control. Allow me to simply say, for the record, for posterity: yes, I, this hat before your eyes, do solemnly state that I indeed believe that you are of a girth greater than usual. You are fat, yes. Heavy. Welterweight ratio. "

Louise was shaking with rage more and more as the hat somehow spoke. Actually, she was about to fly (of course, not literally, unless that is meant figuratively, for despite all her best attempts to both conduct magic, including flying, and to take all injunctions literally, as, if you take the liberty of recalling, the useless Zero cannot even fly) into another level of debilitating rage, but some freak (in cause at least, but not too surprising, to be sure) headache struck.

"My… Brimir…Founder... oh… my… head… hurts."

"Smashing a part of one's body against a wardrobe has been known to cause pain to the aforementioned body part."

After much gasping and cold sweat, Louise spoke up again. "How did you move me onto my bed?"

"I'm magic," the hat said. "Pure magic right here."

The hat jumped and did a five second little cutesy-cake jig, twisting about. "I must say though, it was a difficult task, even for my not-inconsiderable magic. It is most fitting, that pink hair of yours- you humans all have flesh the color of pig, but you, you proceed above and beyond in determination to emulate a full swinery."

"This must be a daydream and I must have been sleepwalking to get this head pain," Louise thought. "Or… something…"

"No, that it is not," said the hat. "And good Lord, even your mind speaks loud, too, I must say. If I were still attempting to acquire typically but not always nocturnal rest-... hathood here, I say, I would be..."

Louise, having blocked out the hat's currently running empty talk and having reached her Brimir-the-Founder-damn-it-what-the-fire-and-brimstone-location-is-happening-at-this-very-moment threshold for the day, only blinked at the reading of mind broadcasts. Rather than continue down this road of sensible ignorance, Louise then sat up and sent off waves of unfounded imperiousness.

"OK fabric thing, I am Louise Francoise le Blanc de la Valliere. You are my familiar. You will serve me."

"Your name is actually Louise?" the head adornment muttered. "Eh, wow, so, uh, familiar... huh? What's the proof? I don't know you at all."

"Proof? Oh, you want proof? Against all odds, you're clearly intelligent, aren't you? Don't you remember that binding ceremony?!" For the briefest second, Louise had been hopeful-going-on-excessively-delusional once more, happy, actually, that maybe she really did have some sort of magic if this summoned hat was magical (no, make that "magic," just magic; pure "magic" alone, he had said, had he not?), when the hat seemed to have crushed that hope. Her anger rose again, fighting against her headache.

"That? Eh, don't remember. Must have been asl- acting as a non-active yet exceedingly fine piece of head fashion does in the in-between times at that time."

Louise grabbed the hat and shoved her hand onto him. "See this?! This here is the proof! This jumble of markings is a familiar rune!"

There was indeed some assorted random markings across the hat.

"Oh, uh... I'm a hat. I'm sorry, but I can't see."

Louise, breathing hard, stopped and then started cackling madly. Yes, that much so; she was cackling so madly, in fact, simply cackling did not cover it. She was not only cackling, but cackling... madly.

"What? What is it you find of such levity to the point of laughing in a rather unhinged manner, strawberry girl?"

"I'm sitting on my bed arguing with a hat. OK, hat?"

"Cease and desist with the practice of calling me hat. I've a name, proper nomenclature, you know."

Against (the) better judgment (of those other than Louise, apparently), Louise continued down the rabbit hole to madder than a hatter and full of rabbits land. "OK, hat: what's your name? OK?! Tell me of yourself."

"My name is 帽子は偽事. But you can just call me 帽子."

"Boushiwanisekoto?" Louise asked. "What a strange name. Strange name for a strange thing, then. Why, I can't imagine that name being grammatically correct, even."

"Nomenclature does not necessitate sensibility, le Blanc- wait... ignore this prattle. Focus on what is more so important. As I said, 'you can just call me-'"

"Hat? Yes. I'm just going to call you Hat."

The hat somehow looked angered. It was getting to be as angered as Louise, actually. Quite a feat- though maybe the hat was just a fine example of possessing a superlative ability to hold in and suppress anger, and now the floodgates had overtopped. (Maybe. One can never be certain in life, and a state of indefiniteness can allow great mobility interaction-wise.)

"Fine then. That's fine by me. Almost as fine as myself, actually. I'll just not tell you of myself, then."

"You're a hat, what's there to hear anyway? Hat. Hatty hat hat."

Hat ruffled its grand finery in more anger, hopping a slight bit but coming down hard. "I've already been torn from all I know, essentially kidnapped, and you decide to act like a child to one faced with such horror?"

"Hat. Hat, hat, hat! Hat!" Louise yelled quite audibly- shaking the room's finely crafted wood foundations/floor/that wood right there, right below, you are aware, or should be, of this: that wood, that which is stood on. (Just be aware, it really is quite good wood, but her scream was really something; really something, to counter, so, disbelieve any who may say otherwise regarding the quality of this wood. It is the finest there can be, no questions regarded, let alone taken.)

Outside the room, one red headed bust monster and a glasses donning book predator stood. "You know Tabitha, I even put off spending another passionate night with another entranced boy to come here and tease Louise while I could, but I feel kind of sorry for her now. Let's not bother her."

Tabitha only nodded.

* * *

A note from the scrivener:

Esteemed audience,

This was test

Best regards,

I, the scrivener; the one who scrivens


	2. 1

CHAPTER 2: IT CAN GET WORSE, or NOTHING GOES AS EXPECTED, AS SHOULD HAVE BEEN EXPECTED

Everything had gone terribly wrong; more so than it already had. It happened in a record time, too. Though no one was around to record that, one could begin a record of Approximate Time to Everything Going Terribly Wrong with this situation of Louise's as the first entry and expect it to hold for at least forever. (Though it must be conceded that this is a bit cherry picking at its finest. The record is really not all that impressive, and it is inflated by how it is measured; switch the measurement methods to something like Most Exceedingly Inane Physical Task Accomplished by a Certain Pink Haired Wonder at the Tristain Academy of Magic within the Confines of the Female Second Year Students' Quarters against a Hard Wood and Possibly Hardwood Wardrobe via Means of Cranial Assault, and it would stand to last only an eternity. Of course, just for the record, if one is on the search for dynamism, perhaps for reasons of surpassing that record that stands for all time, then do not be intimidated by even the second record's insurmountability, for there is the given methodology of records in the way of Most Quaintly Foolish Matters Pertaining to One Louise le Blanc de la Valliere, in which case, the record stands only... no, it is gone, it is done. It stands in the past. It is long gone, far exceeded. And by that Louise herself. Everything is always excessive with this explosion meister of a pinkie pink pink, that strawberry blonde but pink girl. Forget exceeding these records; too low and they shall be replaced).

Supposedly, one should expect this situation, given one hothead pinkhead's involvement in an already uncomfortable situation. The matter concerning Louise is that it takes much willpower (of the magical and non-magical kind; either or) to be up and active after a thrashing such as Louise had managed to both take and give, to deal and receive simultaneously. Louise, however, was merely Louise. It was not willpower she had, but simply a stubbornness fit for a Louise. There is a small but important distinction, see: by the inherent nature of stubbornness, it must show and ruin everything.

The day after the familiar ceremony was to be a halcyon respite spent with one's familiar, with the mages bonding with and otherwise euphemistically enslaving their new pets. All was generally going well and according to plan until Louise stepped out into the courtyard. She had just been informed of her expulsion by Old Osmond and given several days' time to have her affairs in order before leaving. The bit about affairs ostensibly meant to organize everything, but a little creative (idiotic) interpretation and words from her hat had convinced Louise this was her last opportunity to raise some trouble before her mother speared her right through the midsection and had her body displayed as an example to any others who might be so foolish enough to require examples regarding what the Heavy Wind would do to dissent (dissent as in the truly creative interpretation of "not meeting standards"). So at the very least, Louise decided she might as well pay back some of the humiliation heaped upon her over the time at this Academy.

It was true Louise was angry at her hat for not speaking up and making her look psychotic to Osmond, but nevertheless, what is finished is finished, if that must even be stated (and honestly, Louise being angry or not is the default). She now had to make the best of whatever situation facing her, and besides that, she had started off on the wrong footing (or was it heading?) with Hat; she would admit that her show yesterday was, while thoroughly fascinating, not exactly of the "fine first impressions" type. That familiar, no matter what, was all she had left (excluding the innovative, New Age rage within her that was wont to come into being ever-so-often, ever-so-often actually meaning very often), so she would tolerate him. And last but of the most import, that hat really was a fine hat, just like he had so reported.

Hat was a glorious, deep black top hat that seemed to drink in the light around him yet still illuminated spots about him. For stretching the length of Hat's 4 foot body were adornments of various diamond studdings positively shining about, seeming to concentrate the stolen light in an absolutely stunning ring. Maybe this was the effect of magic, or maybe this was the halo effect, but Brimir forbid this be some magic spell called the halo effect. (That would be too far.)

Hat also had a base curving upwards, a dapper, gold encrusted ribbon encircling itself as its hatband, various markings in different languages questioning the genteelness of whosoever might be viewing the hat, various markings in different languages informing whosoever might be viewing the hat of how their genteelness paled in comparison to the hat, various markings in different languages informing whosoever might be viewing the hat of the specific degree to which their genteelness could not match the hat's, a few statements questioning the exact semantics of "genteelness" as opposed to "gentility" and calling for a civilized debate over the "crux of the matter" for good measure, and a mobile monocle and pipe combination that darted about, serving as Hat's eyes and nose.

The only thing that might even remotely be considered as tarnishing Hat's perfect body were the familiar runes which Louise had added to him. They did not call anybody's gentility into question, unless they did so so subtly as to not have that fulfilled as their primary purpose. In any case, that runic markings' purpose must be questioned, then. The gentility-questioning markings were unquestionably, or rather, very questionably in some ways and assured in some other ways, already magic in nature as well; they would shift to variable languages in order to be understood by each viewer and to provide the correct, high class, and custom tailored rhetorical questions veiling insults to each viewer, so why could not the rune do the same? (Such was the actual rhetoric directed by the markings to the rune. It was taken so far aback, so aghast, it had no answer. Or the rune was non-sapient. Not likely, that was deemed by the markings.)

All this impossible luxury combined meant that common convention would consider Hat to be a more-than-worthy hair protector/nemesis to the Sun and that Louise's exacting-without-an-exact-target standards considered Hat sufficient. Sufficient to wear. She could not, however, because it went through her when she tried to place it atop her head.

"Apologies but not really, Louise. You may be nobility, but you are not a true gentleman. Thus, I cannot be worn by the likes of you. Embark on life changing journey to raise your fashionability quotient, pardon the neologism, and return to me, and then maybe perhaps we can see. In a metaphorical manner, that is... meant. "

So it was that Louise was angry as, as said (on both accounts), she stepped into the courtyard. But the recently-stoked anger flashing through her from Hat mattered not to her. Not anymore. Nevermore would that matter. The innovative anger she held for the bullying and taunts faced over the years mattered more, and again, Hat was a fine hat. He was only helping Louise build herself up for today's trouble-making confrontation, yes. Helping her rationalize and organize her innovation, you know? Pick your fights and all suchlike, y'know? Even if somebody else does the picking in lieu of you, yuno? No? Very well. It is only a hope that one is aware, never a certainty. In this world that must come to an end, nothing may ever be sure. (Other than hats, that is. They are possessed of a great, almost contagious, self-confidence.)

Louise's calculations informed her quickly of an opportunity to reap a terrible (well, more like petty, but one starving on a desert island takes any meal that shan't be one's own arm with great gusto) vengeance. A first year brunette was looking around for one Guiche de la Garish Pretentiousness, and Louise, knowing of their lurid nighttime trysts as all in the Academy other than those involved in it (that humorously-innocent love triangle) somehow did, thought it apt to facilitate this blooming love by providing directions to the brunette.

"Katie, your lover boy's over there. That girl he's with is just not-his-sister and probably maybe not his cousin either, by the way."

Katie thanked Louise for the guidance and Louise thanked herself for her (not really that) clever plan (that some peasant commoner really could have come up with, and inadvertently, too) while rubbing her hands together. "You're going to get a real surprise real soon, sooner than should have happened anyway, nether regions nomenclature bearing piercing fop bully boy. And you'll regret that warning to that one fat sow of an earth elemental teacher, yes, yes. Yesssss."

To a backdrop of light turning to heavy hehehe resounding, Katie approached Guiche and a misunderestimated understanding of Guiche's concerning his own smooth-talking, double-playing skills culminated in Guiche's face being rough-motionedly, double-impact slapped. Louise had walked in close by in a manner best summarized as "continuing in the not really subtly at all charade" to enjoy the spectacle, her hat taking up a seat on a table nearby and giving a thumbs up with a nonexistent thumb while exposing a set of sharp, triangular teeth to "egg" Louise on in her enjoying of the spectacle. That spectating, of course, could only achieve maximal enjoyment by holding one hand close up near the face and laughing exaggeratedly in a high pitched O-ho-ho-ho way. Such is a must, for it is the way of the noble, the way of the genteel: mastery of the backwards-splayed-fingers-over-mouth laugh is one of the key indicators of nobility.

"Yes!" Louise thought. "For once, I can be the one engaging in such laughter! It was all worth it. It's worth it, whatever cost may come to be. I've finally done it."

"So then, am I noble enough now? I just did that, right?" she spouted from behind her grin.

Guiche twisted to face Louise. "Louise? Your schemes were behind this? You who, in your jealousy, made two beautiful young ladies cry?"

"When did I say that?" Louise said. "And why would I be jealous? And they cried? Cried tears of slapping?" Certainly. A new classification of tears must be added, for now there are tears of sadness, or rather, normal tears; tears of joy; and tears of slapping. Such innovation. When the emotions become overwhelming, when you are in doubt: let the tears flow. It is the all-encompassing solution; a solution so versatile, it may solve all problems, even those that might not even be. It may even create new ones, specifically for the purpose of finding their solution.

"Louise: though it pains me to challenge a woman, no matter how unrefined and coarse, I must defend my honor. I shall be waiting at the Vestry Field. This duel is obligatory! Face me." Guiche turned on his heels and left.

凸

A brief moment of being catatonic and wondering what exactly in Brimir's imperious sweetness just transpired later, Louise shook her head and recovered use of her pupils.

She swept her head around and located her hat. She grabbed him and ran off to a secluded location to prepare some serious shouting (it would not be desirable to have anyone believe she was of ill mental stability solely because she was giving her hat familiar bestowed the infinitely imaginative name of Hat a proper shouting to, like Yuno? Though, as it should be known, Louise's grabbing did nothing to put that notion to rest; on the contrary, due to Hat's impressive length, Louise was forced to place Hat upon her back and run off with her hands hooked behind her, confusing and infuriating everyone who cared at all, however small that number of people was).

"Hat… you told me to go for this! You never told me this would happen! What am I to do now?!"

Hat lit his pipe and exhaled slowly, enjoying the sensation that he, by his own admission, really should not feel. Louise was not enjoying the spectacle.

"Hat?! Respond, you stupid fine idiot!"

"Remain calm, Louise. That is what you must do," Hat said after taking one last puff and stowing away his pipe.

"Easy for you to say! You're a hat! And you don't have to duel him! Tell me, honestly, what am I to do?"

"Easy, Louise. Easy. Just kill him."

Louise doubled back and caught her balance only on a stone wall nearby with her head. "Huh? What?" she said in a dizzy daze of familiar pain.

"Louise, this is the perfect opportunity to kill Guiche and reap your vengeance. Consider the facts: one, it is a duel, so it would be passable to do so; two, you shall likely never see any of the students here again. When else might you be able to... ah... avenge... yourself so?"

"I think you're missing the point where I have to DUEL SOMEONE! Now think of whom you suggested I kill: Guiche de Gramont. He's nothing impressive for that, but, unlike me, he has MAGIC! Even I can see and admit that much!"

Hat took out his pipe again for the expressed purpose of putting it down to express his disdain. "Louise, you have explosions. I know you do. I decided it was a worthy venture and recently swept through your memories. Before you say-"

"But-" Louise's face reddened, from either-or-and having her memories seen or from sheer frustration.

"Quiet. Just listen: you have explosions."

"YOU ALREADY SAID THAT! And still, I can't and shouldn't really kill someone… not even if I wanted to." The pinkie-possessing pink-flushed pinkhead pressed her pinkies and indexes together to execute a supreme fiddling maneuver, perhaps even worthy of a fresh, shiny, P-flourishing cognomen. She had never put such a motion to official use before, but it was well-practiced (and that showed), as a matter of course: many hours in front of a mirror had prepared her for social use of it when flustered enough. (If there is one positive matter to be reported concerning Louise, it is her maniacal drive for an acknowledged, well-regarded even, existence; even then, stating it as a positive matter... well, it is mania.) But let a return to the crux of the matter be sought: it has not been used much, for it is simply that being flustered is a rarity; the infuriated part is common with Louise, but the confused issue, not so much. (One may take issue with that lack of issue, but remember that one cannot be confused if they are so far gone they do not even realize what it is they do not realize.)

Hat exhaled in a sigh, disappointed in Louise and that he had taken such an exhale in a form that did not involve pipe smoke. "Fine then, Louise. I'll take this duel. This and only this one duel, understand? I believe your familiar can stand for you, being representative of you at all times, essentially. So I will do this for you."

"Hat… you are a hat."

Hat, who was already scampering off to the field, did the fine quality headgear's equivalent to looking over his hat shoulders.

"That is correct. Unparalleled insights, as could only be expected from one as astute as yourself. I am indeed a hat. I look forward to further observations from your tirelessly cogitating mind."

"Hey! Hat! Come back here! You..." Louise pouted with her hands swinging in the air.

"What stamina you have for nonsense," Hat muttered under his lack of breathing. "Never have I ever known any other being who holds such an ability to sleep talk and sleep walk whilst awake. You truly are the glue that keeps all the wheels turning greased, Louise."

Waking somniloquy and other parasomniac disorders are quite rare indeed, but they are equally so concentrated as uncommon, for those occasions when they do manifest.

* * *

A note from the scrivener:

Most dear readers and most especially dear perusers,

Italics not working, cannot fix, did not work on last chapter. This induces within me a state of being very apoplectic

Apologies but no regards,

Most dear self, I is here, for I am I


	3. 2

CHAPTER 3: TWO COME AND GO, or THE ONLY ONE HERE

Guiche awaited Louise on the Vestry Field, as he had said. He faltered for a moment upon seeing Louise show, but reassured himself of her pigheaded foolishness being the prime determinant of such a course of action. Despite everyone's commonly held fear of Louise's explosions in a classroom setting, it was surely mandated that none of that fear would ever transfer to outside of the classroom. Explosions may be painful and cause vast amounts of collateral damage, but it is no big deal, Yano?

Duels between two nobles were, as a crux of the matter of the commonly held course, forbidden. But Colbert knew it was likely to happen anyway. Honor was that which was valued most among the nobility (behind magic, that would be; otherwise, Louise might actually might be held in high regard! On some days, at least! AS IF! It is not as if honor even works that way, on an uncertain, [in]convenient schedule and all!).

The duel would be held, one way or the other, and all duels in general would happen, so Colbert, ever the realist, deemed it best to hold it out in the open, where he might be, at least he hoped, able to ensure nothing would go too far. In this one case, he was also concerned for and about Louise somewhat. She had been acting erratically since yesterday, and now this put her directly in the danger zone of risk.

He knew not how misplaced his hopes and worries were.

凸

"Ah, so there you are, Louise. I didn't think you would actually show your face here. I must praise you for doing this much, Zero." Again with that cognomen of Louise's... it angered her, very much so. The one who said it must receive all the rage. Let Guiche be swallowed by it. Louise's hands tightened in contained fury. Patience. It had to be directed. Burning hatred must inspire frozen revenge in calculated retaliation.

Upon the Vestry Field, Guiche stood, a really just excessive and unnecessary grin affixed to his somehow smugger than usual face as he addressed Louise and waved his ever-present flower.

Louise smirked back in a return of false confidence. "That's my line. Everyone knows that I am nothing if not honorable. But you, Guiche? You're a two-timing fop scum."

The faintest trace of anger slipped onto Guiche's face, but he wiped it away and replaced his grin. As all true men do, he knew to never show to the world that you are torn up inside and cry every time, staring at the ceiling until the Two Moons set and the Sun peaks in the morn, wondering how things might have turned out differently. "Oh? And what gives you such confidence, Louise? Everyone really does know you are nothing if you are not honorable, as you're hardly a true noble. You can only pretend to be one, what with your lack of magic."

"Magic or no, I'm still more noble than you. I'll win this duel."

With a veritable, absolutely superlative flourish, Guiche brought his wand forth and swept out a rose petal. As it drifted the ground, Guiche chuckled and spoke one last time. "Say what you wish, Louise. I've had enough of this empty talk though. This duel will happen, and you have no answer to this."

Guiche's rose hit the ground and a bronze Valkyrie sprang forth.

"I do have an answer though: THIS!"

For a moment, everyone, Louise included especially, stood around, confused, awaiting some event's happening. Then...

Louise, having stuffed and hidden her hat somewhere around the small of her back, whatever and wherever that is, now reached there and whipped Hat forth before Guiche could even recover his comprehension and unleash a counter questioning whether Louise was still harping on about that grassy familiar object thing. The crowd recoiled in surprise at this utterly unprecedented approach, and Guiche would have too, if not for the fact his comprehension was permanently removed for want of a head.

The ferocity with which Hat struck was unparalleled; the epitome of sanguinary. He bit into Guiche, ripping apart his clothes, tearing off his hair, and pinned him down. He tore one arm off, and another, and blood came forth in great spurts. One thrust and pull into and out of the shoulder, and bone blades were made, protruding out in grisly scene. The shoulder blade grabbed, then plunged back into the neck, more blood coming in a fountain of red wash. Cut, cut, cut, cut. Cut, cut, slash; a cut here, a slash there, and buttery yellow-brown pus and blood mixed all together into an appetizing aperitif comes pouring out. A scream cut short, a surprise for you, here, have it as it cuts away and off with the screams. The disbelieving eyes come rolling out, one still thinly wrapped and held to the head by a string of flesh, then the flesh torn with a squelch, a squelch of wetness and a pop. Pink grey matter coming out, chewed on, yes, delicious. Consume it all. Shovel it into the mouth; waste nothing. Grab it, grab it with full hands and shovel it in. Into Guiche's mouth; force it open and feed him his medicine, have a taste of his own self. You love that, don't you? Smacking sounds abound; yes, yes he does. Ravenously, the eye and chewed bits are taken and shoved back into the source; into his shocked-open mouth. An abyss and a source, the one source is. Up, down, up, down, up-down, up and down, chew, chew, juices, tasty wine-carrion juices flow, glassy juice pouring and pouring through and through, into reality and the world, those mouthwatering vitreous fluids overflowing. How does it taste, how does it feel? You love yourself, yes? Enjoy. Yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yum yes. Enjoy. Laugh now. Cackle. Cackle over the wet squelch of dying flesh. Necro...tic.

A leg removed like mutton, used as a bludgeon, a beating upon the wasted body, the leg hitting and hitting until the ribs crack and the bones of that leg bludgeon itself crack, snap, burst. Blood, blood, blood, bursting everywhere. Swim in the blood, the beautiful sea stained incarnadine. Louise closes her eyes. The crimson-synonym natural paint laps over her. A dress ruined. The material wasted. It would have been a fine finish for wood. And the dress fine cloth on its own. No need for re-coloring. Dye is for the unsophisticated; the peasants and such lot.

Claws come out and tear into the body anew, what's left of it coming apart. So many eyes closed before, now so many running, vomiting, unsure, terrified. Tabitha closes her book, looks up briefly. Gazes at Louise.

"I will go now."

Kirche's mouth agape. It was interesting at first, thought to be Louise unleashing that savage, pent up lust- no, belay that. That's wrong; don't do that. This was murder- at best. More like slaughter. Kirche joined the rest in leaving, fleeing for the hills of wherever that isn't here. This was horror. Horrible. Why? Don't do this, Louise. Don't do this, don't; why? Why, leave, flee.

Colbert, even on the verge of vomiting himself in spite of all the terrible scenes he had witnessed, shook himself to intervene and joined in the slaughter. Body number two for the spoiled soup. A broth now, more like.

In other words, the duel went perfectly: Guiche shredded like the ball piercing he was. It went as well as one could expect! As well as butchering someone of a high social stature in clear, public view and going all the way and past skinning the body to many witnesses' disgust and horror could. In fact, if one lowers one's standards (which only Who would care about at this point, considering that Karin's are inherently unreachable) and qualifies with conditional statements enough, then one might even say truthfully that the duel went swimmingly. Smoothly. Redefinition is innovation.

凸

After the euphoric rush of victory, Louise continued reveling as she stood on that grassy field.

"This is amazing!" she thought aloud. "I don't even need weapons at this rate! A talking sword couldn't beat this; couldn't beat you, Hat!"

Hat smiled.

"Though... a sword might help. Hat, I know you're quite capable now, and it was great seeing what you did out there, but maybe you'd be even better with a weapon? Should we perhaps find a sword for you?"

"I am a hat, gentility lacker. I am not possessed of being given to arms, but rather, class. How would one expect me to wield such an instrument?"

"Maybe in the same way you walk-hop around and pipe-smoke about?"

Hat gave a good huff, offended as one who is met with an unsolicited reminder of the past might be. "Well, I never. That's quite distinct. Quite a distinct matter. Yes, quite distinct."

This annoyed Louise a bit, staining her victory. And far away, in a shady shop, a talking sword woke briefly to ponder why it was he felt subtly denigrated, like he'd missed a great opportunity, and then decided to go back to adding to his dust collection for several thousand more years.

Louise continued thinking positively, for the most part, but, in due time, still had to complain about something, and so chose something regarding the execution. Such nitpicking... well, the grass is always greener when not stained with blood.

So she brought Hat around to that same corner of shouting to give him another good helping of a proper, religious level shouting to. She started off with some complaints about how the duel's execution was subpar; doubly so, for there was insultingly little of an insulting build up to the fight and she'd scarcely shown her own prowess. It was a lighting quick strike, to be sure, but it was all Hat's hat speed! But some sense came back into her and she calmed down for a moment, as much as is possible for one such as herself, and conceded with some vain mumbling that the first was somewhat Guiche's fault and the latter was somewhat shown by her familiar, an extension of herself, doing the fighting. You must know that spears do not kill people, but people do. If one were to fault the spears, that would make for quite an interesting experiment of a world anyhow, as punishment would be impossible. Try destroying a spear- break it into two, and you've only made more of the same: a shorter spear and a sharp, broken splintering wood spear. The spear would always win, especially if it so desires to create death. You've completed part of its task that way.

The complaints had to continue, however. If one is truly motivated, a way can always be found. As Louise said it, "THE FIRST THING I SHOUTED IS STILL SOMEWHAT APPLICABLE!" Guiche may have maneuvered around further denouncement in favor of going straight into the duel, but, if Hat had gone a little slower, perhaps some further "smack talk," so the name is for the certain tone adopted by one speaking between shattered teeth and other various wounds, could have been conducted. Perhaps even the wiping of one's face (with a focus on the mouth) of some blood in between the smack talk could have been done. That would have true gentility- this lightning quick fighting had no style to it. Just swift, swift elimination.

(Not nearly) soon enough, Louise's right and proper Brimiric shouting to was finished with for the day, or at least a fair part of it... the curtly remaining part, let it be said. There are, after all, seven stages to grief: disbelief, denial, negotiation, guilt, anger, depression, and acceptance (or, as it is known to those foolish few, hope). While it is true that Louise seemed to have skipped about in order to move briskly to anger, sooner or later (essentially later, for Louise), the last stage will be reached (unless one is interrupted... permanently... but even then, for most people that have those designated "loved ones," the stages shall come forth in others with one's own death as the cause, sort of perpetuating a cycle of what others might call senseless rage and one might or surely would know on their own to be righteous fury, like the divine fist of the heavens piercing in from above to deliver unto one's target the justice of fast vengeance). For her, the stages proceeded apace as this: stage 1, stage 2, stage 3, stage 5, stage 5, stage 5, stage 5, stage 6 (if extreme anger is considered depression, as some demarcate), stage 5, stage 5, stage 6 (by the past definition again), and stage 7.

In summary then, all matters considered, let it be reiterated that the duel went well. It was not until after Louise's screeching cogitations, when one Princess Henrietta showed for a heart to heart talk with her guards tensely, openly flanking, spears out, about, and ready, that it was brought to Louise's attention that this was a stark, raving mad sentiment adrift in a sea of stupidity; like some driftwood washing ashore onto a furthermore island of idiocy peaking in same-such defiance from the infinite oceans of excessive inanity, as if there were some acceptable, even preferable, amount.

After a few minutes of confused childhood friend worship veering on homosexuali- lesbianism (homosexuality, only it is somehow simulating rather than repulsive and disgusting to those outside the target range), the Princess managed to convince Louise to settle down for a sincere talk.

"Louise, I know that, long ago, I vowed to bring you out of any bind, but this is far too much of a matter. A pardon will cost me much, even if I am technically allowed. I will give you one, but this is the last time I can save you. Having said all this, I still came all this way early and I want you to know I care for you. Why did you it?"

"Do what? I do not see what the problem is. Guiche challenged me to a duel, and I committed to it. If anything, I've done good and protected my honor."

"Louise, you walked onto the field, shouted a wide variety of... creative... insults at Guiche, did not accord any time for officiating, danced as a wild, metaphorical dervish-thing might, shouted more delusions while making motions as if throwing something, and then tore Guiche apart. Literally. There are several counts against you, some multiple in number, the most prominent consisting of: murder; mutilation; contempt of the law; derivation of non-sodomitical pleasure from a ruined corpse; the consumption of human flesh and general cannibalism; breaking the code of nobility; contamination of a substance not meant or possibly meant for human consumption depending on the region of jurisdiction; offending our delicate sensibilities and thus corrupting the impressionable youth; witchcraft, as in unsanctioned magicks; failure to control one's 'familiar;' and improper dress. During all this, you were in such ecstasy, your eyes closed and screaming moans, that you must have enjoyed all those acts. But most of all, worse than this long list... Louise, I really am worried about you."

"Princess, please- please trust my honor here. You know I will always uphold that. It was all within the bounds of the duel, and you surely, surely must be aware that I was called to defend."

Louise had drawn in closer to Henrietta, who backed away slightly. Her guards drew in closer too, on alert.

"As... I said, Louise, you never allowed the duel to begin, and what you did went far beyond the bounds of what is just. You killed. Twice. Savagely."

This was true. Even Colbert, clearing his throat and bringing his staff up to start, had been shocked by her strike and the rapid conclusion of the combat. Was this not merely a greater sign of her success though?

"Princess, I know this is true. Yet I will not apologize, for I stand by my actions. And for the pardon you give me, I thank you."

"I do not know if this is the best decision to take now. This conversation has convinced me to the contrary."

Louise's head, turned down in a combination of shame and sadness, flicked up at those words. "What?! No. Princess, no, please. I beg you to... please. Please consider the weight of this situation."

"It is you who does not understand the situation. A noble was torn apart, to shreds, in front of a large crowd of once-innocent youth, then eaten, yes, the flesh consumed, with such enthusiastic cries as 'MMM TASTES LIKE SWINE,' and 'SWINERY SWINERY FINERY.' Have YOU no honor? Where was the Louise I once knew?"

A thick silence settled on the room. Louise's head bowed again, cutting through it, but not completely able.

"The Louise I once knew would never have committed such a foul act. She was chivalrous, sweet, and playful. Not so base, hateful, and bitter. But..." Henrietta pulled her staff up, shaking her head and preparing to leave. "But, in honor of that Louise I once knew, you will be pardoned. Know that I am not pardoning you, but the Louise of my memories. Know that I cannot, and will not, protect you after this. Whatever happens shall. Goodbye Louise, for the last time. I believe it is best if we never meet again."

Henrietta stopped at the door, right before exiting into the hall, for one last long look. "I can only hope you feel remorse, even the tiniest morsel."

Tears ran down Louise's face.

Then Hat roused himself from his not-slumber, curious as to the commotion occurring (and how he might add to it). "Ooooooh," he said upon sighting the Princess. "I must acquire that crown. I must have it! Give it to me. Give a piece of that, now! You, over here, now!"

Hat hopped on over to Henrietta's head and placed his teeth wherever he could. Pending a response would take an eternity, maybe even two. Or an infinite number. Now he should, would, MUST act.

"Exquisite!" the shout came, soaking in all the pleasures of taste. Henrietta's crown was torn into and by those incisors.

Henrietta lost all composure. "LOUISE! KEEP IT! UNDER CONTROL!" She sprinted out of the room, the tears Louise had now transferred to a new source. LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUISE...

Henrietta's guard attempted to intervene, but found themselves dead. First, their helmets went missing, then their heads. Mostly in that order. You must understand that helmets do not come off that easily, and so simultaneous removal did happen on several occasions.

"HAT! HAT?! What are you doing?"

Hat turned to Louise, his mouth dyed in red, chomping at the bits and morsels around and about.

"I am enjoying this well catered buffet, of course. It is absolutely curated with this intensity. Look upon all this headgear and take it all in!"

"Hat... you... this is ridiculous. I cannot even comprehend this anymore."

And so Louise collapsed into a catatonic state, choking on, drowning in her tears, balled up on the floor, rocking slowly, muttering something or the other about hats for the next few hours.

"Hat... hat... hat... hats... why... please. Save... me. He...ell...p." Hat, at her injunction, crawled over and began lapping up Louise's streaming tears after the headgear feast was finished. What a digestif to lick. It was sweet with just the right note of salt. And all acrid. The flavors were mixing together: peaking, existing! Wonderful.

She has become a wonder to behold, that Louise. A wonder that burns the eyes. Truly, the stars of the night sky bound together into one mighty faggot cannot match her brilliance at times. Her radiance is akin to the magnificent Sun close to us, burning in defiance in all of its kind.

Still, even the best must rest. Louise tired out and fell asleep. She slept quite soundly for once, actually. For the second time in a long time, pain induced rest.

But what dreams may linger?

* * *

A note from the scrivener:

To those that, sadly, must be informed:

We shall discuss herein the philosophy of life, as if there is any other, any alternative. Given a choice between wearing a hat and not wearing a hat, it is only logical that one must wear a hat. C'est la vie, or, as they say in Gallia, this is life.

Respectfully at a distance and not yours in any way conceivable,

Eccentricity Abounds, the Genteel One

know that i do a thing, even if, oh no, the thing is bad. if you how surviving that, when i months having spend plan to, the retardant, every second i see the face of you is 100 years of torture. i remember you and the warm, unwanted touch, to burn you down, now you foil that. and into the nicest thing i say, i am sorry. but cool i am be, and they say i the masterful dango fruit. dango is fruit like the incomprehensible mikan, which also the dango. because the travelers that travelers the constant chill room of istanbul know that its true name is know, know now. yum, yum be cook the gluttony in the machine, for to be needings in prep of test preparate. if it is on wooden stamp, the be they wrong, as how far they cut the usu kine kin wood is like blossom of shiitake tree, the greatest granding grounding of MC wam hammer bam. Nam, now, urgh, the choke. Death died, I have. beriberi true. as if i were under a real magic spell pq louise not have the magic ohohohohoh jajajjajaja


	4. 3

CHAPTER 4: THE ONE TRUE HAT, or ON THE QUEST FOR GENTILITY, THERE ARE MANY FALSE TURNS

Louise woke with a start, as opposed to an end. An end would have been preferable.

That dream she had so had had portended something. Unfortunately, it didn't seem true now. She had dreamt of frozen hands, grasping the emptiness of the air, standing out from the snow drifts, through great gales, reaching as for life. They were buried in the whiteness, a whiteness that smothered. It seemed heads on pikes weren't enough. This was an empire's retaliatory measure, rarely in employ to keep its effect. Never seen by herself, except here. It was to come for her. For her mother's destructiveness had to be creative; creatively destructive, innovative to the death. Karin. A heavy wind blew in through the open window, slashing at Louise's watery eyes.

She felt her face encrusted. She felt it in her still-there hands. She felt it covered in tears, blood, and spit.

Yet none of this concerned her. It was secondary. Her concern was to first be with herself, over her actions. They had convinced she herself was the issue, and to police herself with honor, that fool's pretense of gentility.

"What have I done?" she thought oh so tritely. She pulled herself up, appealing to a sense of fatalism to keep herself going. "I did what I did. It is done."

Her eyes swept through the room. It would never be clean again, even if she did lower herself to sweep it thoroughly and truly.

"After all I have done... what can I do?" she asked aloud. "Who can accept me now? Who will ever? What can I do? Please, Brimir, forgive me."

Louise was never one given to religion, but now she fell to her knees. If one were to do so out of despair anyway, it would be best to turn it toward a possibly pretending to be productive purpose then.

There was always the chance divinity and fate twinned together, intertwined, could answer her calls- and, in an unwanted way, they did.

"Louise, what is done is done. Do not be ashamed. It is by no fault of your own that the wheels of destiny turn."

"They... died... from me. By my hand."

Hat moved in closer to Louise and placed his hand-pipe upon her low facing shoulder.

"That is not true. I do not have hands, and I was the one who killed them."

"But the master is responsible for the familiar, which makes-"

Louise was interrupted by Hat licking her eye, seeking to whet his appetite for the coming delicacy of tears.

"WHAT WHY DID YOU HOW THE IN THE WHY?!"

She turned her head in shock and slammed face first into Hat. Hat retreated.

Cold fury, refreshingly icy, filled her to the brim once more. "Why did you do that, Hat?"

Hat sighed. "Do you know of subtext, Louise? Honestly, your appraisal as a non-noble is beginning to seem more and more proper."

"Answer me."

"Fine then, yes. I suppose I am here to cheer you on so, not to give rise to more self doubt."

Louise drew her wand and pointed it to Hat. Hat, unfazed, hopped upon the nearest, and one and only table.

"Louise, you certainly did not wish for me to lick you in the eye. Yet I did. Therefore, you are not responsible for my actions."

"What? Don't be silly. If that were so, then I would not have a familiar. Then I would not be a mage. Or I would not be able to control my familiar. And I would not be a real mage then, either."

"Ah, but our case is special, Louise. The majority of familiars have no thoughts. I am quite given to thought. I am of thought, so much so. You should expect a difference."

Louise drew her wand down, then snapped it back up.

"Honeyed devil's words. I don't believe you. You seek not only to defy me, but subvert and control me now. I will never abandon what honor I have."

"What honor you have left?" Hat chuckled darkly as some fine, expensive, aged chocolate that would pair well with some fine, expensive, aged wine would. "You have two choices before you now, Louise. You can stay the current course with I, the gracious Hat familiar of your dreams. Or, you can face their 'justice' at the hands of the Church, the nobility, and the country. All for nothing doing- doing naught but what was natural. The familiar reflects the master, as you would say."

Louise lowered her wand, but remained snappily angry for the red alert of a show that most given to the weak gods of rationality abandon ships for. "I shall need some time to consider this matter further. For now, I shall retire to my quarters."

So she moved to her wardrobe, realizing that she was already within her quarters and had nowhere to go based off what she might have said.

Through the high quality wooden barrier between the two, Hat spoke up. "Louise, understand that everything I do is for your own good, your own sake. For our good. Someday, someday soon enough, you'll understand."

He made a sweeping, hat-bodily motion, like a wild, motile trunk scrambling in a humid morass-filled jungle of green, across the room. She tried the wardrobe's door.

"Blood may be spilled across the length of this room. It may be splattered on your face, body, and self. But do you feel on your hands? No? Then I have succeeded." From certain perspectives, technically and morally, Hat's words might be even viewed as the truth.

Louise broke through the door and slammed it shut. It was a tight squeeze, jamming herself in that wardrobe, no matter how fine it was (although it did, admittedly, make the experience a little more palatable... and lamentable, but sometimes, one so wishes to revel, or at least find solace or sympathy, in the destruction of something beautiful), but she managed to fit. Now then, it was time to sulk.

"That someday better be very soon to be soon enough. The stains and blood from the duel were hardly even washed off by the time these new ones came."

Her indignation held true. It is difficult and unbecoming of a noble to deign to engage in the cleansing of their clothes, no matter if it did rhyme and thus would be coupled with the enjoyable activity of flensing and commonly was required after such. For this one occurrence of such belongs to the domain of the uncouth servants' ways. It is a sign of true gentility, all would know, to lack these basic life skills. There are lowers for that.

Hats, the signs of the highest of gentility, know this more than all others might feign to. They are not washed, but preserve and persevere on their own, serving as stoics forever marching forwards do. Only the unworthy might wash or be washed; those that hold a candle subserviently to nobility but do not know of gentility, like of straw hatkind. To say otherwise is to operate on a different distinction of nobility; that is to say, one that is not at all.

And it is widely known that...

"I am right," as Louise whispered to herself. Wherever the future took Louise, she would travel. And master, or make, the road. No one had ever told her the road to gentility would be easy, and it would have been apt to assume it would be hard, as objects without much definition often have a pesky predisposition toward being difficult to obtain. But she was so resolved now. And she had even found a way to continue the course without conceding the argument, if what had transpired could even be called such from views separate from her own. Regardless of whether the events existed or not, those views that do not matter, actually. That was her genius for justification showing; her greatness in this was her greatest part of the whole. Louise does not argue- she finds out whom is misinformed, and informs them. At that flat planet at the center of the Universe where all by the total name, given and surnamed, and with other names between those two together, of Louise Francoise le Blanc de la Valliere do exist as the stars about always rotate about them and rules of capitalization, amongst many other rules, bereft so as to be unknown, one pink wonder stood and shined.

She could justify well. Well enough to lead.

凸

Louise stood alone in the Academy's courtyard, Hat astride her head, but not truly worn. Nor was he truly asleep. Merely resting to regain his strength, as one often does following a hefty meal. A befitting repose for the repository of digestion within is necessitated at times.

In the distance, a gray shape approached, delineated, and came into full detail. Wardes. Her fiance. Her hero. The one who had groomed her in her childhood, and in every possible way that term might be so applied.

Louise, for all her stupidity in effect, was not stupid in the metaphorical heart, heart signifying not the pumping of blood, or even feelings, but one's mind. She knew that if she was still standing here, and Wardes was coming, she had to accept it. And she had better be beaming about it. It would be for the better in that manner.

After all she had done, she was alive. The Princess had spared her one last time, leaving her to house arrest in the Academy, her final fate up to her family, and her family had it in mind to spare her, just barely. No punishment of death was forthcoming, but she could never expect her family to ever show any shred of sympathy or what little love they had collectively before ever again. Even Cattleya had to be disgusted by the news. This was the best she could expect: sent off to be married to Wardes, a man so generous as to still accept her, and, for her, to serve the family so politically. To serve as a pawn-piece in penitence.

Yes, Wardes came on behalf of the noble le Blanc family. As Captain of the Griffon Guard, he would have come anyway to accompany Henrietta's official coming visit to the Academy, but he had left his normal duty for this. It warmed Louise's heart a bit to know that that man who had held her, stood by her side in her youth, and said words of comfort and sweet nothings of content and contentedness had loved her wholly. Even now, he came for her. Hot tears slipped down the length of her cheeks, and Hat did not lap them up. No. He was resting.

Wardes' magnificent figure sauntered over to her, his visage fantastical to Louise's disbelieving eyes. He said nothing. There was nothing to be said. Nothing needed to be said. He came in closer, moving to pull Louise into a hug. Louise collapsed into his arms, her crying accelerating into sobbing, then bawling. He was set to smile in a sinister way, as if a plan long in the making had come to fruition sooner than expected. He was set to pat her on the head, set to compliment her for defending her honor, to tell her to not listen to the others, and to reassure her that all was well, and that all manner of all matters would be well.

Louise made as if to say something. "Shhhh," Wardes whispered. "You're in my hands now, little Louise. Whatever they say you've done, I'll be here for you."

Louise lost herself in his arms. There was no longer a her and him. It was only the two of them, together. It was an eternity of union, an eternal union meant to be. They were to be bound in holy matrimony- but that was only an acknowledgement of the bond in their souls, of what was meant to be. The two of them would become one; they would stay one, as they were now. This moment was for all time.

Wardes was a man of wealth and taste, and Louise was-

"Sweet imperious Brimir," Louise said when she tilted her head up and caught sight of something beyond her best nightmares.

Hat awakened with an implacable bellow, shouting a battle cry long forgotten and lost to the ages. "THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE!"

He swung to Wardes, claymore materializing by him, and forcibly detached the man's head. His head was locked in an expression of utter incomprehensibility, neither understanding nor capable of being understood. The execution complete, the head rolled away, and green energy leaked from, then came in a torrent from, Wardes' body. It went into the air, through Hat's sword, and into Hat himself, his monocle swelling with fresh power.

Hat pointed his levitating weapon, longer than his own body, to Wardes' body, as if it were still defiant in any challenge. "There can be only one... _I_." Hat whispered. "You who would wear the brimmed hat... you have been tested and found wanting."

A pause. Then, Hat raised his bloodied blade to the Heavens. "I! AM! THE ONE! AND ONLY!" The blood came off in a singeing flash of white, and the green energy disposed of itself.

Bow before the truth, for it is blinding.

Louise's eyes had been closed during the bulk of the killing, but had managed to catch the last parts of it; the killing blow, all important in and of itself, sufficiently finely. Now, Louise's eyes gazed over to the new body made and proceeded to glaze over, becoming an empty shell in color and form. "Hat... what did you do?"

Another pause. Hat lowered his sword and faced to Louise.

"What was proper," he said. "I did... what was proper."

"Proper?" Rage surged through Louise, the stages of grieving advancing rapidly once more, and resurrecting her once more. "Cutting off heads is proper?!"

"That is correct. Oh, technically, a fair point though, thank you for reminding me, so let us learn and be learned together of this apprising: it is not proper, for it is right and also proper. Though, truthfully, it is a matter of perspective. If you must take issue with this, which I suggest you do not, you should very well take issue on the quibbling form that is how some cultures have an alternate, alternative, alternating viewpoint, much as that 'alteration' of a word itself acts out. You see, some cultures view the cutting off of heads not as right and also proper, or the set phrase of right and proper, but proper, which may or may not be the case in this local land's culture, though, by your reaction, I do not think it to be. Simply keep in mind to not be close minded and broaden your worldview; for us to be effective intercultural communicators and engage in a productive dialogue, I would suggest that you realize that, in some cultures, it is perfectly normal, entirely appropriate in some contexts, or even commendable behavior to decapitate one's apparent appointed lover. In summary, who are we to judge what is proper? Who are you to, you should particularly ask. Keep the bias of your privilege in mind and realize another being's rational reasonings for their positions."

Louise breathed in deeply, preparing to unleash a volley of unbridled, hastily worded rage.

"And remember that you have no right to the condescending, impetuous, excessively judgmental, jerk of the knee, appropriating ethno- and class-centric opinion you are surely about to express freely," Hat gave in addendum.

Louise was already inured to the worst effects of Hat in excess. Rather than to go catatonic as before, this time she sat down on the soothing, unstained grass and stared downward before opening (with insulting) dialogue again. "You're worse than... nothing compares."

"That wasn't my 'appointed lover,' Hat," Louise said. "I have known Wardes since childhood. Along with the Princess, he always stood alongside me. In fact, he was more of a guiding light than her- after all you did, he was coming to help me. As for before, it was the same: he was always there to comfort me in times of trouble. He was my hero; the epitome of nobility to me, selflessly working toward a better world. I was a little girl without magic, a noble lost in a world all about that which I did not have, and he took it upon himself to watch over me. He was going to marry me, the one no one else would ever take, to keep watching over me forever. And now, one swing from you, and you've undone the weight of our shared history, betrayed everything we built. You've... I've betrayed all that."

Hat had a close call of a near smirk. "Louise... do you honestly believe that tripe, that ocean drainage of a mound of collated, concentrated tripe refined, about that man? Please, he could not be trusted. He was only going to exploit you."

Louise said nothing.

"You must have seen his face. His head. Look past your school girl's frenzied first love and you'd see it- his hat. It was wide brimmed."

"So...?! You are a hat! Oh yes! That's right! You, the hat, you fool fabric, can't be trusted! I see! Thank you for showing me the way... I see... fool... f-fool."

"Exploit me?" Louise continued on, as if demanding explanation for some servant's excusing for a rudeness. "As if... he could..."

Taking Louise's screaming silence as a sign to continue, Hat did. "Yes, that man had a wide brimmed hat about him. The hat of ambition. And never forget that a hat is the truest sign of one's character. Hats suffice and show where emotion and words cannot. A normal hat was not enough, and so he had to have the greatest expanse possible. This was a sign of his ambitions, Louise. He would have used you. Exploited you. He could not have been trusted. Even wanting to use him, if it had ever occurred wholly to you, or so how your family of fellow nobility but no gentility, might have thought, would have turned out poorly. He would have stood in the way any way you cut it, by my assertions. Estimations, let us say. Thank me later. Or don't. This is a thankless job, anyway."

The sword withdrawn, and Wardes' body left desecrated, whether out of respect or disgust, Louise and her familiar sat in the courtyard as a cool spring breeze blew over them.

Hat sighed. "You are quite sympathetic, Louise. Perhaps too much so. Knowing that, let me place my argument in terms receivable by you, then."

And so an earnest, if mostly one sided, discussion but not dialogue was had, not held.

"You'll see everything by your own view," Hat said. "By you and your perceived compatriots' views. Yet you always fail to consider mine, mine own. Consider that... I... could not abide the Hat Man's existence. This may sound selfish, but I assure you, I have had many an experience, and my experience tells me that he could not be trusted. I will not say I am sorry. I will not apologize. However, I will explain to you that his hat was an unforgivable affront to myself. This I will explicate why."

Louise shifted up in apparently attempted-to-be-disguised-but-clearly-not-done-so-very-well interest.

"We of hatkind are highly territorial creatures. All my combat skills, you see, are trained to perfection by constant use, tempered in the fires of war without end. On my world, my race, the top hats, ruled a country known as Top Gat spanning the north of a peninsula next to an island known as Rising Boushi. That island was once ruled by us, but we were driven out by the maniacal missive of a wide brimmed hat. I barely escaped death myself, having resided there in its better days. A land that was once in harmony- plunged into endless war by those wide brims. You can say that they were not to blame, but they wholeheartedly accepted the wide brim, the one who was first called Yari, but then, by proclamation, by the name of Grimm Hatte, who led them. The one named Grimm Hatte, who led them to the ceaseless strife, and saw to it they embraced it. Grimm Hatte, who perpetrated the genocide of top hatkind in Rising Boushi, and led the invasion of the Three Mountains of Ryuukyuu, then followed with the invasion of Top Gat. The one who made the deaths of many policy, not only stamping out hatkind in Rising Boushi, but exporting it to Ryuukyuu, engaging in the trade of killing there in the Deathly Hanagasa Ondo, and following with the murder of as many of top hats as he could have his despicable ambition wrapped around in the campaign in Top Gat. Grimm Hatte did not even give his own land time to recover from the ravages of revolution before more war came; such was his lust for war, blood, and conquest."

Hat's monocle and likewise features shone in melancholy.

"During this time, I had fled to the west, to my ancestors' homeland of Top Gat, where the rest of the top hatkind welcomed the refugees from Rising Boushi, either out of sediment* or for the hatpower for the inevitable coming war that clouded over the land. There, I abandoned everything I had on the road to redemption. The loss of peace was my fault, I felt. I had not been prepared for the original rising. I had been a playful dilettante pretending to nobility. So I had to make everything right again by the reclamation of the island. I took my current name, Boushi W. Nisekoto, and erased my past. I extinguished my name, the essence of my soul,a lesser but still grand sign of self, like Grimm Hatte did to Yari. I swallowed all my sadness, and prepared for a bitter life of harsh campaigns, every day studying tactics, gathering support, and training myself physically for the final day we, my new comrades and I, would restore rightful rule to Rising Boushi. I even took the fields when Grimm Hatte's armies landed in Flat Crown, a region at the bottom end of Top Gat, and drove him from my new home at no small cost. This was the brutal war that we had awaited, feared, and anticipated; it had come. It was the Homeland Liberation War**, and we were actually traveling the road to victory. On that final day, that glorious day when we were finally ready for the final battle, the boats set and stocked, the soldiers prepared with steeled hearts and swords, and a good wind blowing to clear seas, everything ready to avenge the fallen, you took me away."

Hat hung his head, or rather, his entire body, down.

"In truth, as you hear today, I was never the noble like I had said, nor was I ever genteel, Louise. I lost all my titles to Grimm Hatte's revolution, and the urge for vengeance became my only purpose in life. Style mattered little in face of such feelings. The waning days of my life there were engrossed by the war, and it was all that mattered to me anymore. I say again that I am not sorry for what I did, but I hope you have context now. On some other part, I am sorry, however much that means, for deceiving you. For lying to you, by omission. Even if you never asked properly and let me speak about it."

Louise and Hat looked to each other. Hat turned away, climatically. It was dramatic. The drama was climbing.

"I know that this is confusing for you, but you do not have to know. Not now. Not yet. Just understand how I am, where I come, my background. If it is of some help, you may think of my story as a mere parable, a tale. An allegory."

"Then... if all that was true, why were you fine with the Princess? Her crown... would be a more than a wide brim, wouldn't it?"

"You are being stupid. Cease this at once, or I'll bash your head in and eat the soft parts," Hat wanted to say. Instead, he responded, patient as a mountain rumbling, that crowns were distinct from hats. It was obvious. And Louise's lacking, shriveled intuition in the art of dealing with the obvious was overwhelmingly, overpoweringly heady, like the scent of bitter oranges on the wind on a midsummer morn, carried through the atmosphere alongside the smell of earth after the May rain: it made for a too-long of an imbroglio of a wonder to behold.

Louise shook her head, eyes squinting in a mix of self hatred, hatred, and confusion, infuriation building in herself for dropping to her familiar's level.

"Crowns and hats are of a very different make, that is true. It is akin to how helmets are most definitely not hats. The hardness and the softness of the two marks a different branding, a different maker, it makes for. I am clear? If not, let me place it this way: to take a hat's power, one kills and skins them, or lets it flow in naturally for a lesser gain. To take a crown's power, one must take their very essence. One either, if mercifully inclined, beats into submission and enslaves the crown for a continuous drip feed of power, or seizes upon them at once and consumes them, taking them as bread. The taking of anything else as bread is mere enjoyment, but a necessity for absorption of coronal power. Such is the way, and such is how it must be."

"What... what do you know? You're just a hat," Louise said.

"One would think being a hat qualifies one well for speaking about hats," Hat responded. "But apparently not by your exacting with no particular standards rules. No, belay this and that. The onus must be mine for you never allowing me the time of the day to explain myself earlier, and then expecting you would accept explication now. It's true. It is. You've never cared to become familiar with me before, why should I think it might happen at this here and now? Why, you've called me naught save Hat all this time. I'm a tool, a device to your body, you busybody. Let there be exposition, and let it be summarily given, 'little Louise': in the world of fine headgear, it is not only the nobility that must compete, and not only in gentility. It is a constant struggle, and none may be complacent, for only one hat may reign supreme. In my day, that hat was very nearly- was me. It was."

"So... I believe I caught this important part in there: you admit that this, whatever that may be, is your fault?"

"...Sure. Let's operate off of that assumption from this moment forwards, even if you'd reached that conclusion much earlier. Presumably. Off presumptions."

"And if my understanding of the later parts I skimmed over aurally are correct, which they must be, for they are my assumptions, then you delivered death unto Wardes over his hat?"

"...Yes."

"That's actually why you killed Wardes? Because of his hat? Actually because his hat..."

"...failed to show proper respect to me, yes. That is actually why. Know this, Louise: as I unclearly iterated in favor of saccharine appeals, I see myself, and saw to that I would be on the path to be, the Supreme Hat, El Supremo. No other hat may challenge or even question my fashion abilities. They must show reverence in my presence, or be judged and face my wrath, for a lack of humility to El Supremo is a request to duel or ignorance in need of enlightenment, both of which honor demands the same response of death, preferably in the forms of rolling cranial objects. Objections of the sort."

"Be more in depth a bit then. What, specifically, do these rules have to do with Wardes? That that hat was upon his head?"

"That is that," Hat said, his mountain eroding under the geological undertaking of Louise's nature. "His hat was him. It was upon his head. It was imperceptibly linked to him; linked to him so thoroughly in ways that you cannot be understand and I therefore conveniently will not detail. That hat was his sinister plot, his conspiracy. It was him exploiting you, in time. His failure to show respect to me was his character encompassed fully."

"I... know I will regret this, if I still have the agency and coherency to do so in the future... but what would respect entail?"

"His hat would have been taken off or tipped to acknowledge my presence. It is contextual: in some locations and to some variants of hat, to tip is a most scandalous proposition of the sexual sort, often accompanied by the set phrase 'm'llinery.'"

"Oh... kay. If you don't mind, and I don't care if you do, Hat's name, I shall now be despondent for the next..." Louise drew a mental dart and saw it let fly true, "72 hours."

"Take your time, Louise. Take it slowly."

The two rejects, master and familiar, failures and pretenders each, nodded solemnly to each other, a tacit understanding formed, ready to be shattered.

"But don't take too long," Hat threw a smashing rock spear with. "Any time exceeding 72 hours incapacitated, one way or the other, in any way, demands the blood of an equivalent number of virgins as a sacrifice to right the grave wrong such dithering wreaks upon the schedules of others' nefarious schemes. It is especially troublesome in that the sacrifice has a vacillating exchange rate to be equivalent to, too****."

"Was that supposed to mean any- ah, being despondent," Louise though-...

Being despondent was truly beyond the true pale though, truly. It meant Louise had been met with a situation beyond even the point of catatonia, what little distinction there was between the two. It meant that Louise was standing on the precipice of great change, or sitting at the here and now, inert. Inert when she could have been broadcasting her fury, unleashing her signature incandescent, raving, thousand exploding Suns level rage. Yes- so many Sunhoods, and not at all in the sense of bright clothing (although it is best not to play it up too much, as Louise certainly does not reach to the top of the scale; that would imply she is the best at something that does not involve being the worst***).

Louise fell to the floor of earth, violently and sadly, as per usual expectations.

Hat stood vigil and sighed his last. He gave a lie over a lie for Louise when the sentiment failed. But it was all lies anyway, so, regardless... soon, Louise would be grateful. That impossibility, that impossible dream, would be accomplished.

"Oh please. You'll be thankful soon enough, as should be," Hat whispered then thought. "And as you should have been. He was only trying to exploit you, Louise. He would use you, that Wardes, but he does not deserve. He does not DESERVE! Didn't you see his head before I so efficiently and speedily removed it? Answer that how you will not."

"That was my fiance. He loved me. Could I trust him? I thought so," Louise thought. She sighed a deep sigh, even her despondency. It was one of indistinct, instinctive nothingness, void of anything. But it was a deep sigh, one like a regal one inhaling a cocktail of mentally fine finishes encased within a luxurious bainewood finish hookah smoking implement (though to Louise, it didn't really seem as if she had that at the moment, no matter how so she subconsciously imagined such an image).

The two fools sat and sighed, absorbed in their own world.

The importance was in this impossibility: for Louise's, as of Louise, it was a regal sigh. One of one tried and tired, having had fools around them prance to the point of having taken too much, and ready to unleash their (self-) righteous wrath upon the world.

* * *

So the scrivener "notes" so non-laconically:

Greetings and salutations to me, you subordinate audience (do it! yes! proceed!):

*It has been deduced that this statement may be "inaccurate": a sic, the ill dictators of what they would call forth as "proper" writing call it. But that may not be so. As might be said before in different contexts, it is all a matter of perspective. Perhaps, when they uttered that it was for want of sediment, they were desiring to have the flesh available and blood run freely to fertilize their fields, to let the ichor run like pus from a sea of such, though it is a large question of an if on whether hats are capable of, or even see an need to, practice advanced, sedentary agriculture past the hunting-gathering, or resource managing, non-field depleting stage. A manageable, sustainable stage, that being.

With this all in mind, one should also keep in mind that a third option consisting of this and the previous option of their being an error combined is possible, however unlikely. The gentry of Top Gat might have so desired the war to make them rich, or to make the worst of that earth shattering rebellion in Rising Boushi, with war being profitable to those not touched by its ravages, and had not only sought the fertilization of the land, but wished for the additional hatpower of the refugees to serve in the coming conflict. The better part of it, if someone might so deem a conspiracy for conflict good at all, might be that they did in fact wish the best for those under them, and sought those refugees' hatpower in order to absorb casualties, serving as a permanently displaced mercenary army. If the casualties would be on the refugees, one might actually see benefit from the peasantry too, from better crop yields after the war that saw little casualties taken. Why, the few who died would allow for even greater harvests; there is a certain point, a certain margin where there would be little famine from sufficient workers, and still the lack of those workers would allow for greater portions for those that remain. Food for ten for one year could conceivably serve as food for one for ten years, after all storage measures are undertaken well. And there is the untidy but possible consideration of nutrients to be derived from the fallen's remaining body trunks, unpleasant as that may be. But they are but peasants, like animals. They may consume their kin, and they may enjoy it! Do not act as if you would serve better in such circumstances. There is a beast chained within yourself, within all our selves.

That is all.

**This war that had come to be known as the Homeland Liberation War in Top Gat is known by many other names in other regions of Pileus, the world of the hats. The most common name outside of the participant regions, an exonym, which you will, is the neutral name employed by both amateurs and dedicated historians of the Wide Brimmed-Top Hat Class(y) War of 1945, sometimes appended with Part the Second, which has its own optional corollary or even replacement of "Electric Bugalu" due to the instruments oft-deployed to coordinate army formations in the time which technology had advanced to a sufficient base to allow electronics but communications and ideas had not yet innovated and been put into practice to the point of deploying dedicated channels of contact such as radio. Other commonly held names include Yari's Revenge over the Revenge of Yari*****, the War of the Three Yari (or Yaris), or the Yari Yari Yari (Yari Yari Yari the Yari Yari Yari).

As an aside, this war would later merge into a greater regional and then worldwide war known as the First Nomenclature Conflict, itself a portion of a greater conflict, which saw Pileus, or Hat's World (depending on the faction), plunged into a three hundred century long conflict known as Civilization, which began with bludgeons; cudgels; stones; swords; muskets; primitive rockets; some magic of some kind; and crude gunpowder bombs, cannons, and contraptions, and ended in bloody trenches; hat wave attacks to clear landmines; the innocence [of a generation] lost; mobile warfare employing combined arms, integrated engineering and recon, and close air support; chemical warfare; electronics and communications warfare and countermeasures; convoy raiding tactics; and the first deployment of a nuclear weapon by a purpose built kamikaze missile flyer. The First Nomenclature Conflict, as the name so clearly implies, unless you wish to take issue to this, would end in a disastrously unbalanced treaty known as the "Armistice for Twenty Years" that would see the Second Nomenclature Conflict follow and conclude with the deaths of nearly every single hat on the planet, with the remaining hats enslaved into a projected to permanent underclass existing only for the crowns' pleasure.

Hat was as of yet unaware of any of these events, or the events to follow. There is no indication to suggest toward the otherwise.

As a further aside, the First Nomenclature War, as one might logically expect to be intrinsically befitting of a war rooted in such a cause, is also known as the Second Nomenclature War ("we don't mention the first one") between the Foreign Import Pluralists, and the Not the Pluralists, known also as the Non-Pluralists, the Loan Word Integrationists, or, alternatively, the Damnable Cultural Appropriating Sea Thieves of Grammar Lacking Scum of the Pileus of the Three Oceans' Expanse against the Honorable Ones of Extreme Virility But Still Possessing Prepossessing Modesty Who Would Seek Justice, Peace, and Eternal Harmony If Not For the Savage, Unforgivable Acts and Very Nature of Their Enemies by their enemies, and sometimes themselves, if one may count the separatist subfaction of the Term Reclamationists/the Reclamators as amongst them still.

Let this suffice however, and be brief: for this is here without even mention of the possibly third or fourth or innumerable faction of Those Who Would See Us Devolved Into Warring Tribal States of Savagely Barbaric Users Of Redundantly Capital Title Case.

*****This is also yet another matter of intense debate, as Yari's wars are sometimes viewed not as a revenge, but more a "first strike," and so a "venge," if the backformation of a term is even still extant or ever so was. Those that push the revanchist agenda aruge that some injustice must have been heaped upon or otherwise reverse lopped to Yari in his peasant days when the gentry consisted of foreign in origin top hatkind, and so that they oppressed him, forcing his hand, and that it is a matter of perspective or something or the other.

Those were the notes of this one time, and, if we are to be nothing but a dot in the cosmos, let us be an annoying, pest-like dot that shall accord some notice from those that hang above like a terrible, unknown Sword of Damocles

As they say in Araby, "that's all she wrote"

Except no:

A note within a note from the scrivener, thoughts building upon thoughts, stairs spiraling on spiraling sets within a recursive set of set sets:

A note within a note from the scrivener, thoughts building upon thoughts, stairs spiraling on spiraling sets of a confused sort of nature:

Uninformed as always viewers,

***A scale measuring the numbers of exploding suns from 1 to 10 wherein 4.789432 is the highest. It has been criticized for being confusing and infuriating, but that is where its most-verily-tensile strength lies: such is the way it may convey the frustration one feels to another (though use of the scale has been known to commonly overtop that goal and cause many a user to proceed slightly past a thousand suns' rage toward symptoms which may cause extreme danger to both the afflicted and those nearby, warranting immediate and hopefully medical intervention, including and limited to, and so really plainly just consisting of: bleeding from the ears at irregular intervals; incoherent screaming and frothing from the mouth and rarely other regions; clawing out one's own eyes; biting off one's toenails rather than fingernails, including the non-cuticle regions that are certainly definitely not meant to be bitten, to "boot"; using multiple adverbs consecutively and commonly; smashing one's head repeatedly against wardrobes; and being of the belief that food from Albion is not only physically edible, but palatable to the point of desiring its consumption, even once given alternatives, starting from cannibalism and beyond- unthinkable as that may be.)

With despairing regards toward to your lot's education (a-a...although not caring too much or wanting for i-improvement... of the lot or a-anything; it is only despairing... not disparaging your circumstances or a want for more),

That rare informed breed of those suffering crawling upon this piece of spoiled soil adrift in the dark night of eternity illuminated only by overly etcetera worthy etc... It is only I

Elsewhere:

****This system employs a similar scale to the non-standardized weight of a thousand "exploding" Sunhoods, known as the Typical Hood Derivative Sacrifical Exchange Rate System


	5. 4

CHAPTER 5: EMPRESS OF ALL THAT REMAINS, or HIDDEN DEPTHS

A dangerous delusion has taken hold of Louise: hope. Hope, the most dangerous of delusions. Hope has cast aside millions and destroyed the lives of a commensurate number, in entirely related affairs. Hope has caused many to... I... is there even a purpose to this?

Louise woke to warm sunlight streaming down upon her face, caressing her into consciousness. In and out she had drifted from consciousness and sanity the past few days (or years, from a certain point of view). Now, she woke, definitively perhaps she did.

"Was it all a dream?" she thought.

She looked around, taking in the lush scene around her, greenery pushing up in breeze-breaking forest, full of birdsong and curious animals ducking about. For once, lacking all her noble compensations, she was happy. For once meaning the briefest moment, taking in the beauty of the world, while still awakening to the reality of situation that would soon come because, as you know, it is because life shall rush through the gates and crush such untoward notions, because:

...because...

It wasn't a dream. No. She wasn't in her room. This seemed real as reality could be. It was far too vivid to dismiss.

Then how is it she was here, rather than there? There, in her safe little room? She struggled to remember, and chanced upon nothing.

"Hat...?" she tried. "Are you there?"

"Yes," a voice answered.

She searched around and spotted Hat to her right.

"What happened? How are we are?"

She remembered.

"You were going to be despondent in the middle of the Academy's courtyard after murdering Wardes, and that wasn't a good idea. So here we are in the woods nearby, hiding."

"After I murdered Wardes? Are you stupid? Yes, maybe, probably, definitely. But no. I didn't do that. You did that."

"Louise, how can you be sure about that? Did you see what happened there? I would find that unlikely, and so suppose not. Your eyes were closed or looking down for the most of it. You only caught part of it."

Truth, it was. She did shut her eyes to the world and all that. Truth... it had been.

"No," Louise said. "I saw enough to know you killed Wardes, and you think now it was the best choice. Are you going to ignore everything that happened in the courtyard?"

"You don't think much, do you?"

"More ignorance? You of all should know by seeing my mind that I think a lot, even too much. I think, and I think a lot; not necessarily in the way others would like, but don't question the outpouring my thoughts are."

Any honest being in existence would be able to see that the reality of the matter is that neither of these think much, or in a worthwhile manner, but that is digressing.

"I'm not the one ignoring anything, Louise. Louise, I have a confession for you, and then question for you."

Louise narrowed her eyes to prepare passive aggression. "When do you not?"

Hat ignored her to address her. "It is by no small... a small amount... a fair amount... some fault of mine that you are the way you are; that you are a questionable person of lacking personage."

"Of course it is. You're the reason those lots are dead."

"Now, my question: [do you believe] [(am)] I [(am)] real?"

"What kind of question is that? I might wish not or otherwise, but yes, you are."

"Good then. Here is something that will answer for and alternate both my confession and your response."

Hat took a deep, dramatic breath.

"Louise, I am not real."

"Really...? Just because you say something doesn't make it true."

Wise words from Louise. Quite a rarity- the uninformed might think. Remember that wisdom comes after persevering through protracted failure, so it stands to reason that Louise is wise beyond her years expected. Though maybe a little or lot less than should be expected given her quantity, that is solely due to having much to learn and learning slow. Actually, disregard this and that. What that object of falsely freestanding fabric said about the both of them does apply.

"Louise, Louise, Louise... search within yourself. You will find me."

She thought. She thought and she thought. Dangerous as that might be for any other, only she could manage it without dangers coming to claim her into lucubration. She could manage thought without fear of the analysis, or anything of the sort. Divine.

She thought of this so, of how it altogether created sensibility as far as could be in an insensible world: fear of her, despite the apparent sapience of her hat and a general lack of reference to that "familiar failure on the grassy courtyard plain." How little she cared for the deaths around her, even if she could justify sufficiently with it having to do with the bond between master and familiar altering emotion. The ability to take any comers in combat, easily...

No, belay that. This would conceivably answer one question but open so many others.

"If you weren't real and were me, as in but a figment of my imagination, where did those skills come from? The skills to take on those on in battle?"

"It is as if you desire something enough, a way will be found. The power to 'battle,' or, as the royal we might so say more aptly, brutally dismember, was within you all along. I was your spirit awakening, a clever ruse of the will, in a slow and orderly will to power, that allowed you to take the mantle of strength upon you but still keep your innocence and growth in mind to a certain extent."

"How can that be?"

"I am a device. I am but another tool like your arm is to your body. A trick of your mind, to lengthen your reach, and immur... inure you to the glorious slaughter. For your righteous vengeance upon the hateful, ungrateful world."

Yes, yes! This was truth! Embrace it as the truth! It did, after all the inherent insensibilities, make for such sensibility! The lack of reactions by others toward her hat, no matter how fine; how everyone went above and beyond in treating her familiar's actions as her own; the princess' injunction to her to restrain herself... wait, did that mean she desired the princess? No, only the crown. And only as friends. Yes. What, wait, ah? No. Just the crown, that was it.

"This does not mesh with my preconceived notions of how the world should happen," Louise whispered. "But... I should well imagine if I embraced it."

If she were to accept what he...r... she herself said as truth, then it would mean she was worthy of something. It would mean, for once, she would have power. Even a beautiful, sacred, and powerful familiar would not be power for her, but by association. But if she had done what that hat... or she did, then she had THE POWER. The power to brutally eviscerate her enemies; to see them driven before her; to feast upon their flesh, serving as the harbinger of a murder of carrion-birds following; to reshape the world as she willed it; to finally bring the others to justice; to not not have magic, to be magic; and to hear the laments of their women that she didn't really desire that much except maybe that dull red made sparkling atop Henri...no... NO! (no; no, it is... maybe, just maybe, the laments could pass as those women "magi" lamenting their fallen comrades from the slaughter she'd bring, right, right?), but would suffer through as part of the package deal experience.

She smiled and nodded. Then sank, and spoke to herself and her old confidante of the soiled soil beneath her.

"But... what if I can't do it? What if I can't do it anymore without that gentility of your fashion? What if I can only nicely dismember people? The world would tear me apart; oh cruel, wicked world!" she lamented prematurely.

"Louise, you are too quick to doubt. Ask not how to manage without me, for you have done it all this time. Don't you see? The power to brutally eviscerate your enemies, to see everyone who would doubt your word torn, limb from limb, within you all along! So do not doubt. Doubt kills one's mind. You would have to tear yourself apart, or, worse, end up eviscerating nicely. That would be the true atrocity of form. Death is a disease of the skin, but a lack of proper execution is one of the spirit."

"But-"

"Louise, if you will not believe in yourself, believe in the Void."

"The Void? That's the holy power of that Founder of ours, Brimir."

"Let's consider the rhetorical facts here: you possess a preponderance of explosions, which are noted to be preternatural out of those 'hard cored' places known as volcanoes and the blasted, ash-bitten hellscapes around them. At the same time, you cannot practice the magic all the others may effectively. There is a fifth element, lost to the ravages of time, which is largely unknown but is most likely so hacking, cutting manure pile that can conjure anything. Like the magic of the Elves, only for us lowly humans."

"Elves? I have something to do with those murderous demons?"

"Have you figured this out yet?" Hat was about to say. "No? I don't know how you haven't, but here: you are of that fifth element. You are of the Void. Revel in that!"

"So... you mean to say that this wasn't me all along, when I'd only just felt some sliver of assurance and confidence for once?" Tears, being quite diluted and low in salt at this point, pooled at the edges of Louise's vision.

"...No? How did you...?"

"The Void is the providence of the one God Above and the Founder's power! I'm nothing, then! At most, I channel it. Unless... then maybe I can have redemption and take solace in being His vessel. Yes! Any twists for assurance, I shall take! By my being, they shall know the Founder's name! He is worthy of worship, and I shall be an imitator in impression only... I am no heretic. If I must, I will wield my ignorance as my shield and my fury as my sword, and they shall quake over doubting His presence in me. I am chosen, I am chosen!"

Joyous tears ran down Louise's cheeks.

Hat lit a premium brand filtered cigarillo, as he had mastered fire. The Void was not all; merely the beginning.

"Brimir? Brimir is naught save a bitch ass trick, pardon the... translation spell gone awry. You surpass that familiar betrayed fool. Ah, you don't even need one!"

Throughout the conversation, Hat had been growing thinner and thinner in appearance, fading away. It was no smaller, but something was leaving. He was pale in appearance now, see through as an improper weaving of silk, and his presence lethargic, weakening. Through her clearing tears, Louise had noticed that... only now.

"Wait, what's happening? Don't leave me... please. I don't know what to do, more than ever."

Hat smiled to her, his visage slipping away ever more. "I was stolen from the Void, le Blanc. I was torn from the blissful nothingness, the lacuna between, summoned unwillingly here, and every moment is a grand terror, moreso than the typical terror of existence. Every moment is a struggle against the urge to gyrate in screaming pain and simultaneous ecstasy, to unleash the shattered remains of psyche, and to wallow in fear over the lack of dark. So I will go now into death, once more into quaint solace, salvation in solitude and separation. All is as should be."

"Hey!" Louise whinged, regaining her usual demeaningor. "You know, just because something is incomprehensible doesn't mean it's wise, f-fool! And what did you say earlier about you being me? What's happening?! Tell me!"

"No, my ruse that I was a creation of your mind was a ruse of mine mind to convince yourself to have take up a mantle of confidence and strength, Louise. I cannot know whether I failed or succeeded, not yet, or ever, but I truly must go now." Hat was but a faint outline, a stark shadow, now.

"Well... unnnn... how do I know this isn't myself speaking? If a part of me had decided to create such a ruse to convince the rest of myself of something, couldn't this speaking be more of a ruse? I hear Void users often go mad, too."

Hat looked to the midday Sun, shining proud. "I cannot know the answer to that. Some things you must discover for yourself. All I know is this: take up that mantle I said, that mantle of strength, for yourself. Take it up, and believe. Believe in yourself, and all shall follow. Believe your way to victory. You are a god, and you gods trade in and subsist on faith, so start here and now, with your own faith. As I said... some things, you must discover for yourself."

A swirling, purple portal tore reality asunder and Hat climbed to it. The sky wept tears of lightning, trees shed whipping leaves, and the ground shook at the vortex's coming.

Before Hat climbed fully into the portal, he spared a gaze back at Louise, a reassuring smile etched across the length of his features.

"Have faith," he seemed to word.

"You are strong," his non-lips mouthed.

"I must go now, for I am needed elsewhere," it seemed he said. "But remember me, and part of me shall always remain with you."

"NO! YOU CAN'T!" Louise shouted, pouting with her hands, as if she could pull everything back to her. "How will I manage, I don't believe it; I can't!"

"Trust yourself," Hat spoke up. "You've been doing it all this time."

"And, if that is never enough, for one must always desire more, and you find yourself awake on sleepless nights under a soundless sky, believe in the Void. Believe in its power, and tap that. Believe its hacking, the Void's hacking of form. Believe in its power to hack, to dismember, and believe that is within you. Believe in the lack of compassion in yourself, a void where the soul should be. If you cannot have compassion, at least spare a passion for killing. With that, you can spill the blood, and remove the appendages of any and all who would resist."

Hat entered the portal and it closed, taking its accompanying windstorm with it. The trees snapped alert, back to standing erect in attention. Louise thought she heard a few words, snatched from the dying winds, come to her: "Solamente fue una broma, hermanita." Their meaning was unclear. Another "translation spell" gone awry? She didn't know anymore, and she never knew, so...

Louise shut her eyes and the world and all that noise [went] out.

凸

That was as she remembered it. The memories filtering in, flitting here and there, unsure, uncertain. They were shattered shards of something more, incongruous and unclear. She had other memories come now, as she waited in this forest, the streaming light consoling here aphasically. They came like a collection of pictures being dropped by a bumbling handler, with a strange assortment of sounds, vacillating in volume, diving in and out of her ears. Like sweet memories they might be, if they had happened?

"Louise-

"you have achieved true gentility. Louise, you are a true gentleman now. Gentlewoman. That's the truth, wholly."

"Really?"

"Really and truly! Place me atop your head, and you shall not see. You will not, but you feel me. Yes?"

The weight of Hat atop her. Then, nothing. He slipped through. "AJAJJAJAJAJAJAJ, Zero. That was just joking. A ruse, an experiment pushing and challenging societal norms. A lark's prank, it was. You weren't expecting this outcome, I suppose, were you?" Mad as a hatter Louise, he was gone. "Sayounara sucker," he said, one last time."

Before she could react, she was somewhere between catatonic and despondent.

Did it happen? Did any of it? Did it matter? At all?

"Good morning, how are you doing?"

"Not bad."

"Good."

"Yes, that it would be, given that."

"Indeed."

"Agreed."

These were false memories. They seemed to have not have happened.

Louise shook her head and looked around. Sunset. Hat's form loomed over the sky, a halo effect made larger.

He smiled, straight at her. At least, his form did.

Louise shook herself and stumbled around and about. Tears flowed freely once more, or would have, if her ducts weren't dry and used up. She dry-cried herself to exhaustion, then an uneasy sleep ironically easily.

She woke up in an hour on a bed and wood around her.

"Was it all a dream, a nocturnal hallucination? Of terror, of doom, and other unpleasant matters?" Unlike before, she dreaded if it were now.

She reassured herself otherwise. It was not. Hat's last words, the last ones that mattered anyway, echoed and ringed above her: "The power to brutally eviscerate... was in you all along." Something of the sort had been said as his last words. No! That was it. Not his; hers, hers... her last, as in her last: her most recent.

That meant Hat had never let himself be worn by her. Never had he been worn. Even at the end, no. This was a undoubted sign of doubt. Somewhere inside, he, and therefore she, had not felt herself of sufficient gentility.

But wait, gentility didn't matter, did it? Did it, or not? Hat was never a fine judge for it. If he was even a distinct entity, he had failed to regain his nobility. Unless he was doing so now. Yes! If he could go for it, she could.

She was of sufficient, more than sufficient gentility. Now was not the time for self doubt, that insidious rot, to plant itself. It could never take hold again. The land of her mind was barren. She was clearly genteel, and anyone would thought to the contrary was misinformed. Ignorant. They had to be informed.

"Open their eyes with blood," a voice, likely hers, whispered. "Persuade them. Debate as a philosopher-king does: with the fire and sword of arguments and dismemberment."

No self doubt. Not now, not evermore. No pedantry. Seize the day. Seize the crown. See her enemies driven before her, everyone, driven before her, she had to. Listen not only to the laments, but the elegies, too, of those that would remain. She had no discriminating eyes. It was time to build an empire, an empire worth of repetition and asyndeta.

"Louise the Disgraced seeks to build empire worthy of heritage, repetition, slaughter, asyndeta." She could see the reports now. Call her disgraced, when she would judge them. We'll see then.

So her hat was gone. She had no hat. So what? She never had had one. Maybe? Yes. The power was within herself. Yes, it was.

"I'll make a hat. They'll see. They will see it, because this hat- I will wear it. Then, a crown will come and be worn. They'll see that, too. I'll topple their false kingdoms, found an empire, then, then- I'll see to it... they'll see... I'll- I won't just crown myself, actually, no. They'll see. I'll wear a hat. A hat. Then, for certain, I will have worn a hat. And they will see."

The hope that flickers is a terrible kind of hope, jumping from conclusion to conclusion. If it stops flickering, going strong, but ends with one of those terrible conclusions, it is by even more terrible. The worst. That is what Louise had accomplished. Yes, Louise's hat was gone, never to be, but a far more powerful, primordial force, and some would say, fancy had taken hold over her. For the first time in forever, she believed in herself, and only herself. She knew what would come next. She felt the power in herself.

She believed:

They had called her a zero. Zero? Fine then, let them be right. History would begin from her; none would pre-date her. Books would be burned and scholars would be buried, and Brimir would fade into memory and disappear into the dirt with the death. An empire would rise from the smoldering cinders.

She believed in her ability, her talent for destruction; to lay waste to continents, to ruin cities, to reduce fields to ash and fallow, to boil away rivers and seas, to drown her enemies in tides of their own blood, to set the forests and lands ablaze, et cetera. It was her domain.

It was her who would cast the old order away, the decrepit ways of the long dead fool Brimir, and build a New World Order. Many would die, but this world would be united, and hers. Everyone would be together, and submit to paying the tax. It was their burden for their hateful transgressions to her when she lacked the power of dangerous (to her and those around her) self esteem in conjunction with the almost as dangerous power of the Void's hacking. Belief in herself- it had arrived, it sounded the death knell of nations.

Her thoughts channeled into one central one: enough idle thoughts. She coveted everything, and so had an empire to build, conquests to pursue, millions to bring to heel, asyndeta to put to use.

"This world- is mine," Louise cackled with much mad gusto. It all came to down to her now. Brimir be damned, she would succeed where the fop hadn't. That reminded her that the elves ought to die. Their extermination was paramount, for their undeserved Spirit magic was a cart full of oxen waste; she had struggled all this way to find her inner Void hacks for dismembering. Its healing ability was also diametrically opposed to her predisposition to dismembering.

"Nevertheless, I disgress," Louise stated. "I have a hat to make."

Thus, Louise surveyed the lands about her. She saw to the humble abode she dwelt, a refuse heap of a shack in a forest. Hastily assembled, it seemed but a hideout for some Earth magic thief. Those rumors concerning Fouquet...?

They were of no concern. She was beyond that now. She knew not of this structure's previous existence, nor how she had ended here, but she knew what it would be from here forwards: the site of her throne room.

Upon a lone table, Louise set to weaving the beginnings of her hat that would become the crown and sigil for the darkness that would reign o'er the world for 10000 years.

She was soon rudely interrupted by a lone figure bursting through the shoddy door of her magnificent palace to be. The figure twisted, settled, and undid its hood.

"Louise, I am Agnes. You killed the Captain of the Griffin Knights. The Princess has ordered for you to answer to her one last time. Come without resistance," the full figured woman said, raising a firearm.

Louise kept at her hat, chanting arcane litanies and bringing in a headgear where there was nothing. Agnes tensed and fired, and a hole was made in the nascent beast. Still, Louise sat still. Agnes drew her sword.

Louise's rigid body remained still as her head turned. Her eyes emptied, their usual pink turning darker.

"Our lady may be merciful and wish you clemency, but I can stand idle and abide the risk of your existence no longer. I am glad you have decided to resist. Prepare to die," Agnes said.

A wicked smile stretched across Louise's face. "No. You have failed to show proper respect to this." She lifted her weaving aloft. "It is you that must die. Honor demands it."

Agnes broke into dash toward Louise, not waiting for her insanity. Louise, drawing on the power of the Void's ability to hack, materialized a curved sword from nothingness. It was bright and sharp; made of the most glorious steel from Eastern lands beyond, and folded ten thousand times. It had no name in this world, but, born from the Void, it needed none. Others might it accord it one, but that was secondary to its reason for being: to kill.

Let us to it, it would be said. The two joined in combat, Agnes going for a straight blow and Louise meeting it head on. Agnes, believing in her superior strength, smirked. Prematurely. She failed to consider the Void hacks. With a furious shout, Louise's sword, sharper than any steel, cut through Agnes' inferior twin edged blade, and her last expression, frozen in death, was one of shock and fear.

Louise raised her blood-christened blade to challenge the Heavens, as if to challenge the lords above. "I HAVE NOTHING NOW! THE ONLY THING I HAVE- IS THIS! THIS NOTHING! DESPITE THIS VOID, FOR THIS VOID, I WILL NOT SHOW FEAR! I CANNOT SHOW FEAR! FEAR IS BANISHED! IT IS YOURS! LET THEM FEAR ME!"

Louise burst from the hut, blade in hand, and no need for a shield.

A few other guards, having been present to escort Agnes but conveniently gazing wistfully into the distance to grant that dyke plausible deniability, shook upon seeing Louise. They quaked at the sight of disheveled hair, crazed eyes, and bloodied blade coming together in a fun sized package, rocketing at them swifter than any gust.

They quaked a bit more intensely briefly, then rolled to a stop. Their heads- excellent material. The foundation would start here, Louise perhaps mused.

A few million heads could build a throne.

* * *

A note from another scrivener:

Adjectival modifier and word synonymous to the effect of one that is currently so engaged with this document,

Apologies are in order for the brevity of this division of the document. I, the currently given designation of that most beautiful and ironically intelligent, in whatever sense that may mean, scrivener in charge of... scrivening this document, was hacked.

A man whom I was most unfamiliar with approached I with a rather sharp knife and an offer I simply could not refuse for a fresh marine vessel, gratis. Since I does not care for plying the seas and paying excessive upkeep, I kindly informed this generous-if-threatening prince that he would meet only refusal. It was at this time that the prince decided to unfurl his true colors as one who interprets idiomatic expressions regarding offers that cannot be refused literally, which meant I had committed a physics-defying sin, and so she had to die. I was stabbed (and this matter occurred in sequence after the refusal). Then I's arm was cut off in a second slash, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, and so on and so forth slash (it is surprisingly difficult to slash an arm off; that, or I's arm is rather hardy, or more disturbingly, possibly like putty). Either which way, I was lucky for that, for then, after several minutes of slashing, the apparently-not-exactly fit prince had run out his stamina and a bystander had finally decided to inform the local constabulary of the developing situation, noting not the stabbing in particular, but giving a noise complaint involving rather loud panting, which reminded the reporter of all the pleasurable, typically-restricted-to-the-bedroom-but-(un?)-fortunately-not-always activities they did not receive much, if ever, most likely for reasons of being of indeterminate gender, something which tends to serve as a repellent towards most possible partners of engaging in the pleasurable activity.

In any case, especially this case, I's arm was cut off. This had had a most detrimental, even deleterious, effect upon I's recordings of the events that lie herein, though, of course, that effect is temporary and the affected part shall grow back, stronger than before for it (perhaps... I, as in I, am not too familiar with the biology of the creatures inhabiting this miserable dirt ball). In other words, only this division of the document is shorter, and that is the reason why.

With regards to I and none towards the engaged document user, especially toward how she should consider changing her currently given continuously continually confusing and infuriating designation,

It is not I, but rather, it is I, the one who is not I


	6. 5

CHAPTER 6: A GLIMPSE WHAT LIES AHEAD, or A GLINT OF MADNESS

The Head Throne:

CARRIED BY CARRION BIRDS FLYING TO THE SLAUGHTER-FEAST

SHE SITS, GENTEEL FOREVER,

UPON HER THRONE OF DISTENDED FLESH

As I write this, I am not sure if I am mad or the only one certain of the true nature of everything... such is the penetration of Louise's ways. I AM THE INCORRIGIBLE THESAURIAN. I KNOW WHAT I DO, AND IT IS TRUE.

THE EPILOGUE BEGINS:

It is the current year. It has always been, and always will be, the current year. The Divine Sovereign, Citizen Louise, has reigned with noted gentility from her self crafted, self made Head Throne for all the current years thus far, and she shall reign from above for all the current years to come. So it is the current year, and so it shall always be. May her disguised, egalitarian gentility light the way... they say.

In real reality, the reality that is real, we may summarize it otherwise.

It some year unbeknownst to us. Time has been lost in an eternal struggle, against everything within and without. By the will of the inscrutable Void, Louise has ascended upon a throne built of the severed heads of those who would resist her; king, noble, knight, peasant. In a tide of blood, she has purified the world of all those who would oppose her will. And a fickle will that would be.

From her throne room, she meditates, telling nothing, asking for nothing. In irregular intervals, she emerges to bring her dictates upon the world, suffering coming with each in boundless amounts. No matter how far fetched and removed these dictates may be, they will come to being. For her will is not only hers, but the command of countless armies under her command.

Her warriors are legion, eternally on vigil for the slightest offense. Constituting them are the Monocled Inquisition that asks the questions and purges the weak, unworthy, and undeserving, the Carrion Birds that strike fast and leave death hanging in the air and their mouths, and, towering above the rest, the Behatted Ones, eternally euphoric in delivering ends to the stories of their unenlightened lowers. Greater in number, if not ability, come those in support: the Slave-Soldiers, those who have undergone the Rune Process to turn them to her cause, stripped of all will except Hers. Every day, these armies patrol, reaping untold tolls upon a devastated world, taking harvests from the mouths of starving children and slaughtering those with the slightest hint of magical ability or sense of history. Even worse is the times her dictates come, in their full degree and decree, to inflict her mercies of a genteel release upon those struggling to eke out a living from scratched over, barren soils, eating each other and themselves to see yet another day of the same. Many a man has been forced to see his family taken from him, limbs torn off but death not given, for some neverborn design. Such was the Zero Decree.

Yet Louise is not the worst, and she may even be necessary. This world's devastation is hardly borne only of her- great though her armies may be, they struggle fanatically, if not heroically, against horrors without number. The Firstborn, wielding their Spirit Magicks, screech as a falling weight against the loss of their land. They vow with each and every day to extinguish the flickering flame of mankind from this world, piling on their wind and water to try so in endless disasters. The Hairetics, eschewing all sense of clothing, travel in roving bands, pillaging, raping, and sweeping through any and all lands not encased under the oppressive grip of Louise's. Amongst the ranks of the Hairetics, some whisper in muted terror of the possibility of the Magicians- former nobility and their descendants who escaped Louise's purge, long having forsaken even the pretense of honor to seize what they wish. Worst amongst them, beyond compare, is the Great Tide. From a waste-hole of a raging whirlpool in the depths blow, the Spirit of Lake Lagdorian itself crusades against all dry land that remains, of which is little. The world is littorally drowning in the blood of that Spirit, and no amount of men and arms tossed at it seems to rectify the issue. This is regardless of what the No Man, No Problem Decree might state.

Albion, a mythical land once said to hover above the waves, has long given itself in the tide. Halkeginia itself sank under the waves as well, giving way under the double pressures of its windstones failing and the waters rising. Hanging onto their ancient, long dead tongues, the Elves that remain, driven from their lands by Louise's armies, curse her name and try, as once said, to bring down the sky upon her and all under her grip.

Each year, the dictates from the Head Throne come in increasing interval, ever more erratic and unbearable. A war is coming, one greater than all those raging at this time, one that will tear apart what little of this world that remains. The faithful say that, when the time finally comes, Louise will emerge from the Head Throne, the former Pope's hat's greatness added to her own, and do battle against the enemies of Gentility in one climatic war before at last banishing them and allowing the true order to prevail. Those against her silently hope for her to show to grant a chance for a strike, at long last.

The times ahead will not be easy. However litotes-and-litanies worthy Louise's vast, globe spanning empire is, there is little of that globe left to stand.

As I write this now, the world shakes around me. This cave I inhabit may soon collapse, and it is far from any sites of battle. I cannot be too sure how much of this is right and hearsay. But you know now it is not all right. You know the nature of the beast we are dealing with. Louise's state must fall. No empire is eternal. Perhaps, if everything goes as hoped, this age will be forgotten in time. If Louise's bosom may rise and fall like her empire, we shall be blessed, for it is flat, such as I noted.

THE SCRIVENER

TALES OF APOCRYPHA:

More disreputable tales of what may have occurred in Louise's rise to power, likely hearsay, have been marked here for the purpose of archival completeness. Given a designation of which has a meaning lost to time, they are to be referred to as "Omake."

Guiche was dead. Brutally dismembered, as opposed to nicely dismembered or gently dismembered. Yet Colbert cared not. There was learning to be done. Inquiries to be made on this fascinating lifeform's existence. On his people. On his world. On his sciences! So much to be learned. He could imagine sitting down in his laboratory for an enlightening conversation, nodding and smiling as the Hat told him so much. Of fantastic fuels, engines, machine-work(ing)s beyond anything he'd ever known- or tried for. But that is not how the meeting turned out.

Colbert opened his mouth and shouted, "SCIIIIIIIIIIIIENCE."  
Hat looked at him like a metaphor gone wrong.  
"I'm sorry sir, are you currently cognizant?"  
Foam shooting out of his mouth and eyes darting about, Colbert repeated that "SCIENCE SCIENCE SCIENCE."  
"I assume you are a curious tinker whom wishes to know of the secrets of my world, yes? Then quiet down and pay attention."  
The bald man's rabidness halted for his notebook.  
"Yes, yes. Go on, if you will."  
"Right. Well. As you can see, I am a talking piece of fabric. I do not care to know how many laws of the universe that violates, but I suspect the number is supremely high, especially vis a vis the laws of biology. If you think to learn anything scientific out of this endeavor, especially since I have just misused the term 'law,' you are madder than a hatter. And you do not want to go there. I should very well have to put you down in the name of common decency should such a scenario arise. For we are hats, and you would weigh as down as hats. Freedom to all hats. Liberty. Equality. Good day to you, sir." A great big smile stretched across Colbert's face and held there for a good five to ten seconds. Then his head exploded, a pulpy mess painting his study in a rainbow of red and only red. So not a rainbow, but more of a lot of red. Come to think of it, perhaps it would be better to describe his head explosion more like a watermelon popping or a red paint massacre or a red watermelon paint massacre. Still though, the fact remains that Colbert's head ceased to be entirely non-incontinent, whatever manner of metaphorical mess serving as a humorous, diversion-ive defense mechanism distracting from the true horror of a sapient hat craving a swathe of destruction through a medieval fantasy world used.


End file.
